•BBKB^^HHBHlHHW&ll 


OQOQOaO 


GEORGE  DWELLS  •  ARMES 

MEMORIAL  LIBRARY   *  *  * 
ST1LE5  HALL.    .BERKELEY 


LIBRA.RY 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 

GIFT  OF 

Y.  M.  C.  A.  OF  U.  C. 

Accession 1.Q.JL7.5.6 Class      Q 


FAVORITE    AUTHORS 


IN  PROSE  AND  POETRY 


THREE   VOLUMES    IN    ONE 


illustrate* 


FAVORITE    AUTHORS 
HOUSEHOLD    FRIENDS 
'    GOOD    COMPANY 


-CTB: 

OF  r 

UNIVERSITY 


BOSTON  • 

JAMES    R.   OSGOOD    AND    COMPANY 
1885 


COPYRIGHT,  1860,  1863,  1865,  BY  TICKNOR  AND  FIELDS 
1884,  BY  JAMES  R.  OSGOOD  &  Co. 


All  rights   reserved. 


-press: 
JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBKIDGK. 


FAVORITE     AUTHORS 

* 

A    COMPANION-BOOK  OF  PROSE 
AND  POETRY 


"  My  Books,  my  best  companions " 

FLETCHER 


CONTENTS. 


NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE  :  A  Virtuoso's  Collection  1 

ALFRED  TENNYSON:  Dora  .        .        .        .        .        .  21 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT  :  A  Tale  of  Witchcraft  .        .        .27 

ROBERT  BROWNING  :   One  Word  More       .        .  37 

ALEXANDER  SMITH  :  In  a  Skye  Bothy  ....  45 

JAMES  GATES  PERCIVAL  :  Ruins        ....  66 

MRS.  JAMESON  :   A  Revelation  of  Childhood    ...  71 

CHARLES  SPRAQUE  :   To  Montague     ....  89 

BARRY  CORNWALL:   The  Man-Hunter    ....  91 

GERALD  MASSEY:   The  Norseman       ....  106 

EDMUND  BURKE  :   The  Druids         .        .        .        .  '      .  109 

JOHN  G.  WHITTIER:  The  Witch's  Daughter      .        .  123 

LEIGH  HUNT:  The  Old  Lady,  and  The  Old  Gentleman  131 

WILLIAM  MOTHERWELL:   A  Sabbath  Summer  Noon      .  140 

MARY  RUSSELL  MITFORD  :   The  Incendiary        .        .  145 


IV  CONTENTS. 

JOHN  G  SAXE:  Wishing 159 

CHARLES  ROBERT  LESLIE:  The  Great  Portrait-Painters  161 
WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR:  To  Age  .  .  .  .184 
MATTHEW  ARNOLD  :  The  Youth  of  Man  ...  1 85 
DR.  ARNOLD:  Hannibal's  March  into  Italy  .  .  .18!) 
HENRY  W.  LONGFELLOW:  The  Monk  Felix  .  .  211 
THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY:  A  Mountain  Catastrophe  .  .216 
RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON:  Threnody  .  .  .  240 
JOHN  G.  LOCKHART  :  Last  Days  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  .  249 
OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES  :  The  New  Eden  .  .  2G5 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL  :  Cambridge  Worthies  —  Thirty 

Years  Ago 270 

BETTINA  VON  ARNIM:   Beethoven      ....  204 

SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY:   A  Song  from  the  Arcadia     .         .  300 


UNIVERSITY 

OF 


A  VIRTUOSO'S   COLLECTION 


BY  NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE. 


THE  other  clay,  having  a  leisure  hour  at  my  disposal,  1 
stepped  iuto  a  new  museum,  to  which  my  notice  was 
casually  drawn  by  a  small  and  unobtrusive  sign :  "  To  BE 

SEEN   HERE,  A  VIRTUOSO'S    COLLECTION."       Such    was     the 

simple  yet  not  altogether  unpromising  announcement  that 
'  turned  my  steps  aside  for  a  little  while  from  the  sunny  side- 
walk of  our  principal  thoroughfare.  Mounting  a  sombre 
staircase,  I  pushed  open  a  door  at  its  summit,  and  found 
rsyself  in  the  presence  of  a  person,  who  mentioned  the  mod- 
erate sum  that  would  entitle  me  to  admittance. 

"  Three  shillings,  Massachusetts  tenor,"  said  he.  "  Xo,  I 
mean  half  a  dollar,  as  you  reckon  in  these  days." 

"While  searching  my  pocket  for  the  coin,  I  glanced  at  the 
doorkeeper,  the  marked  character  and  individuality  of  whose 
aspect  encouraged  me  to  expect  something  not  quite  in  the 
ordinary  way.  He  wore  an  old-fashioned  great-coat,  much 
faded,  within  which  his  meagre  person  was  so  completely 
enveloped,  that  the  rest  of  his  attire  was  undistingulshable. 
But  his  visage  was  remarkably  wind-flushed,  sunburnt,  and 
weather-worn,  and  had  a  most  unquiet,  nervous,  and  appre- 
hensive expression.  It  seemed  as  if  this  man  had  some  all- 
important  object  in  view,  some  point  of  deepest  interest 
to  be  decided,  some  momentous  question  to  ask,  might  he 
but  hope  for  a  reply.  As  it  was  evident,  however,  that  I 
i 


2  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

coulil  have  nothing  to  do  with  his  private  affairs,  1  passed 
through  an  open  doorway,  which  admitted  me  into  the  exten- 
sive hall  of  the  museum. 

Directly  in  front  of  the  portal  was  the  bronze  statue  of  a 
youth  with  winged  feet.  He  was  represented  in  the  act  of 
flitting  away  from  earth,  yet  wore  such  a  look  of  earnest 
invitation  that  it  impressed  me  like  a  summons  to  enter  the 
hall 

"  It  is  the  original  statue  of  Opportunity,  by  the  ancient 
sculptor  Lysippus,"  said  a  gentleman  who  now  approached 
me.  "  I  place  it  at  the  entrance  of  my  museum,  because  it 
is  not  at  all  times  that  one  can  gain  admittance  to  such  a 
collection." 

The  speaker  was  a  middle-aged  person,  of  whom  it  was 
not  easy  to  determine  whether  he  had  spent  his  life  as  a 
scholar  or  as  a  man  of  action ;  in  truth,  all  outward  and  ob- 
vious peculiarities  had  been  worn  away  by  an  extensive  and 
promiscuous  intercourse  with  the  world.  There  was  no  mark 
about  him  of  profession,  individual  habits,  or  scarcely  of 
country ;  although  his  dark  complexion  and  high  features, 
made  me  conjecture  that  he  was  a  native  of  some  southern 
clime  of  Europe.  At  all  events,  he  was  evidently  the  vir- 
tuoso in  person. 

"  With  your  permission,"  said  he,  "  as  we  have  no  descrip- 
tive catalogue,  I  will  accompany  you  through  the  museum, 
and  point  out  whatever  may  be  most  worthy  of  attention.  In 
the  first  place,  here  is  a  choice  collection  of  stuffed  animals." 

Nearest  the  door  stood  the  outward  semblance  of  a  wolf, 
exquisitely  prepared,  it  is  true,  and  showing  a  very  wolfish 
fierceness  in  the  large  glass  eyes  which  were  inserted  into 
its  wild  and  crafty  head.  .Still  it  was  merely  the  skin  of  a 
wolf,  with  nothing  to  distinguish  it  from  other  individuals  of 
that  unlovely  breed. 

"How  does  this  animal  deserve  a  place  in  your  collec 
tion  ?  "  inquired  I. 


A  VIRTUOSO'S  COLLECTION.  3 

« It  is  the  wolf  that  devoured  Little  Red  Riding  Hood," 
answered  the  virtuoso ;  "  and  by  his  side  —  with  a  milder 
and  more  matronly  look,  as  you  perceive  —  stands  the  she- 
wolf  that  suckled  Romulus  and  Remus." 

k-  All,  indeed ! "  exclaimed  I.  "  And  wliat  lovely  lamb  is 
this  with  the  snow-white  fleece,  which  seems  to  .e  of  as 
delicate  a  texture  as  innocence  itself?" 

"  Methinks  you  have  but  carelessly  read  Spenser/  replied 
my  guide,  "  or  you  would  at  once  recognize  the  '  milk-white 
lamb '  which  Una  led.  But  I  set  no  great  value  upon  the 
lamb.  The  next  specimen  is  better  worth  our  notice." 

u  What ! "  cried  I,  "  this  strange  animal,  with  the  black 
headtof  9fi  ox  upon  the  body  of  a  white  horse  ?  Were  u 
possible  to  suppose  it,  I  should  say  that  this  was  Alexander's 
steed  Bucephalus." 

"  The  same,"  said  the  virtuoso.  "  And  can  you  likewise 
give  a  name  to  the  famous  charger  that  stands  beside  hi.n  ? '' 

Next  to  the  renowned  Bucephalus  stood  the  mere  skeleton 
of  a  horse,  with  the  white  bones  peeping  through  his  ill- 
conditioned  hide ;  but,  if  my  heart  had  not  wanted  towards 
that  pitiful  anatomy,  I  might  as  well  have  quitted  the  museum 
at  once.  Its  rarities  had  not  been  collected  with  pain  and 
toil  from  the  four  quarters  of  the  earth,  and  from  the  depth  3 
of  the  sea,  and  from  the  palaces  and  sepulchres  of  ager,  ic» 
those  who  could  mistake  this  illustrious  steed. 

"  It  is  Rosinante ! "  exclaimed  I,  with  enthusiasm. 

And  so  it  proved.  My  admiration  for  the  n^ble  and 
gallant  horse  caused  me  to  glance  with  less  interest  at-  the 
other  animals,  although  many  of  them  might  Iiave  deserved 
the  notice  of  Guvier  himself.  There  was  the  donkey  which 
Peter  Bell  cudgelled  so  soundly,  and  a  brother  of  the  same 
species  who  had  suffered  a  similar  infliction  from  the  ancient 
prophet  Balaam.  Some  doubts  were  entertained,  however, 
as  to  the  authenticity  of  the  latter  beast.  My  guide  pointeu 
out  the  venerable  Argus,  that  faithful  dog  of  Ulysses,  and 


NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

another  dog,  (for  so  the  skin  bespoke  it,)  which,  though 
Imperfectly  preserved,  seemed  once  to  have  had  three  heads. 
It  was  Cerberus.  I  was  considerably  amused  at  detecting 
in  an  obscure  corner  the  fox  that  became  so  famous  by  the 
loss  of  his  tail.  There  were  several  stuffed  cats,  which,  as  a 
dear  lover  of  that  comfortable  beast,  attracted  my  affection- 
ate regards.  One  was  Dr.  Johnson's  cat  Hodge  ;  and  in  the 
same  row  stood  the  favorite  cats  of  Mahomet,  Gray,  and 
"Walter  Scott,  together  with  Puss  in  Boots,  and  a  cat  of  very 
noble  aspect  who  had  once  been  a  deity  of  ancient  Egypt, 
Byron's  tame  bear  came  next.  I  must  not  forget  to  mention 
the  Erymanthean  boar,  the  skin  of  St.  George's  dragon,  and 
that  of  the  serpent  Python ;  and  another  skin  with  beauti- 
fully variegated  hues,  supposed  to  have  been  the  garment 
of  the  "  spirited  sly  snake  "  which  tempted  Eve.  Against 
the  walls  were  suspended  the  horns  of  the  stag  that  Shake- 
speare shot ;  and  on  the  floor  lay  the  ponderous  shell  of  the 
tortoise  which  fell  upon  the  head  of  JEschylus.  In  one  row, 
as  natural  as  life,  stood  the  sacred  bull  Apis,  the  "  cow  with 
the  crumpled  horn,"  and  a  very  wild-looking  young  heifer, 
which  I  guessed  to  be  the  cow  that  jumped  over  the  moon, 
She  was  probably  killed  by  the  rapidity  of  her  descent  As 
I  turned  away,  my  eyes  fell  upon  an  indescribable  monster, 
which  proved  to  be  a  griffin. 

"  I  look  in  vain,"  observed  I,  "  for  the  skin  of  an  animal 
which  might  well  deserve  the  closest  study  of  a  naturalist,  — 
the  winged  horse  Pegasus." 

"  He  is  not  yet  dead,"  replied  the  virtuoso ;  "  but  he  is  so 
hard  ridden  by  many  young  gentlemen  of  the  day  that  I 
hope  soon  to  add  his  skin  and  skeleton  to  my  collection." 

We  now  passed  to  the  next  alcove  of  the  hall,  in  which 
was  a  multitude  of  stuffed  birds.  They  were  very  prettily 
arranged,  some  upon  the  branches  of  trees,  others  brooding 
upon  nests,  and  others  suspended  by  wires  so  artificially  that 
they  seemed  in  the  very  act  of  flight.  Among  them  was  s 


A.  VIBTUOSO'S  COLLECTION.  5 

white  dove,  with  a  withered  branch  of  olive-leaves  in  her 
mouth. 

"  Can  this  be  the  very  dove,"  inquired  I,  "  that  brought 
the  message  of  peace  and  hope  to  the  tempest-beaten  pas- 
sengers of  the  ark  ?  " 

"  Even  so,"  said  my  companion. 

"  And  this  raven,  I  suppose,"  continued  I,  "  is  the  same 
that  fed  Elijah  in  the  wilderness." 

"The  raven?  No,"  said  the  virtuoso;  "it  is  a  bird  of 
modern  date.  He  belonged  to  one  Barnaby  Rudge ;  and 
many  people  fancied  that  the  Devil  himself  was  disguised 
under  his  sable  plumage.  But  poor  Grip  has  drawn  his  last 
cork,  and  has  been  forced  to  *  say  die '  at  last.  This  other 
raven,  ha'rdly  less  curious,  is  that  in  which  the  soul  of  King 
George  I.  revisited  his  lady  love,  the  Duchess  of  Kendall." 

My  guide  next  pointed  out  Minerva's  owl  and  the  vulture 
that  preyed  upon  the  liver  of  Prometheus.  There  was  like- 
wise the  sacred  ibis  of  Egypt,  and  one  of  the  Stymphalides 
which  Hercules  shot  in  his  sixth  labor.  Shelley's  skylark, 
Bryant's  water-fowl,  and  a  pigeon  from  the  belfry  of  the  Old 
South  Church,  preserved  by  N.  P.  AVillis,  were  placed  on 
the  same  perch.  I  could  not  but  shudder  on  beholding 
Coleridge's  albatross,  transfixed  with  the  Ancient  Mariner's 
crossbow  shaft.  Beside  this  bird  of  awful  poesy  stood  a 
gray  goose  of  very  ordinary  aspect. 

"  Stuffed  goose  is  no  such  rarity,"  observed  I.  "  Why  do 
you  preserve  such  a  specimen  in  your  museum  ?  " 

"  It  is  one  of  the  flock  whose  cackling  saved  the  Rompn 
Capitol,"  answered  the  virtuoso.  "  Many  geese  have  cackled 
and  hissed  both  before  and  since ;  but  none,  like  those,  have 
clamored  themselves  into  immortality." 

There  seemed  to  be  little  else  that  demanded  notice  in 
this  department  of  the  museum,  unless  we  except  Robinson 
Crusoe's  parrot,  a  live  phosnix,  a  footless  bird  of  paradise, 
and  a  splendid  peacock,  supposed  to  be  the  same  that  onr*> 


6  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

contained  the  soul  of  Pythagoras.  I  therefore  passed  to  the 
next  alcove,  the  shelves  of  which  were  covered  AN  ith  a  mis- 
cellaneous collection  of  curiosities,  such  as  arc  usually  found 
in  similar  establishments.  One  of  the  first  tilings  that  took 
my  eye  was  a  strange-looking  cap,  woven  of  some  substance 
that  appeared  to  be  neither  woollen,  cotton,  nor  linen. 

"  Is  that  a  magician's  cap  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  No,"  replied  the  virtuoso  ;  "  it  is  merely  Dr.  Franklin's 
cap  of  asbestos.  But  here  is  one  which,  perhaps,  may  suit 
you  better.  It  is  the  wishing-cap  of  Fortunatus.  Will  you 
try  it  on  ?  " 

"  By  no  means,"  answered  I,  putting  it  aside  with  my 
hand.  "  The  day  of  wild  wishes  is  past  with  me.  I  desire 
nothing  that  may  not  come  in  the  ordinary  course  of  Provi- 
dence." 

"  Then  probably,"  returned  the  virtuoso,  "  you  will  not  be 
tempted  to  rub  this  lamp  ?  " 

While  speaking,  he  took  from  the  shelf  an  antique  brass 
lamp,  curiously  wrought  with  embossed  figures,  but  so  cov- 
ered with  verdigris  that  the  sculpture  was  almost  eaten 
away. 

"  It  is  a  tnousand  years,"  said  he,  "  since  the  genius  of  this 
lamp  constructed  Aladdin's  palace  in  a  single  night.  But 
he  still  retains  his  power ;  and  the  man  who  rubs  Aladdin's 
.amp  has  but  to  desire  either  a  palace  or  a  cottage." 

u  I  might  desire  a  cottage,"  replied  I ;  "  but  I  would  have 
it  founded  on  sure  and  stable  truth,  not  on  dreams  and  fan- 
tasies. I  have  learned  to  look  for  the  real  and  true." 

My  guide  next  showed  me  Prospero's  magic  wand,  broken 
into  three  fragments  by  the  hand  of  its  mighty  master.  On 
the  same  shelf  lay  the  gold  ring  of  ancient  Gyges,  which 
enabled  the  wearer  to  walk  invisible.  On  the  other  side  of 
the  alcove  was  a  tall  looking-glass  in  a  frame  of  ebony,  but 
veiled  with  a  curtain  of  purple  silk,  through  the  rents  of 
which  the  gleam  of  the  mirror  was  perceptible. 


A  VIRTUOSO'S  COLLECTION  7 

"  This  is  Cornelius  Agrippa's  magic  glass,"  observed  the 
virtuoso.  "  Draw  aside  the  curtain,  and  picture  any  human 
form  within  your  mind,  and  it  will  be  reflected  in  the  mir- 
ror." 

"  It  is  enough  if  I  can  picture  it  within  my  mind,"  an- 
swered I.  "Why  should  I  wish  it  to  be  repeated  in  the 
mirror?  But,  indeed,  these  works  of  magic  have  grown 
wearisome  to  me.  There  are  so  many  greater  wonders  in 
the  world,  to  those  who  keep  their  eyes  open  and  their  sight 
undimmed  by  custom,  that  all  the  delusions  of  the  old  sorcer- 
ers seem  flat  and  stale.  Unless  you  can  show  me  something 
re0!Iy  curious,  I  care  not  to  look  farther  into  your  museum." 

"  Ah,  «well,  then,"  said  the  virtuoso,  composedly,  "  perhaps 
you  may  deem  some  of  my  antiquarian  rarities  deserving  of 
a  gknce." 

He  pointed  out  the  iron  mask,  now  corroded  with  rust ; 
and  my  heart  grew  sick  at  the  sight  of  this  dreadful  relic, 
which  had  shut  out  a  human  being  from  sympathy  with  his 
race.  There  was  nothing  half  so  terrible  in  the  axe  that 
beheaded  King  Charles,  nor  in  the  dagger  that  slew  Henry 
of  Navarre,  nor  in  the  arrow  that  pierced  the  heart  of  Wil- 
liam Rufus,  —  all  of  which  were  shown  to  me.  Many  of  the 
articles  derived  their  interest,  such  as  it  was.  from  having 
been  formerly  in  the  possession  of  royalty.  For  instance, 
here  was  Charlemagne's  sheep-skin  cloak,  the  flowing  wig  of 
Louis  Quatorze,  the  spinning-wheel  of  Sardanapalus,  and 
King  Stephen's  famous  breeches  which  cost  him  but  a  crown. 
The  heart  of  the  Bloody  Mary,  with  the  word  "  Calais  " 
worn  into  its  diseased  substance,  was  preserved  in  a  bottle  of 
spirits ;  and  near  it  lay  the  golden  case  in  which  the  queen 
of  Gustavus  Adolphus  treasured  up  that  hero's  heart. 
Among  these  relics  and  heirlooms  of  kings  I  must  not  forget 
the  long,  hairy  ears  of  Midas,  and  a  piece  of  bread  which 
had  been  changed  to  gold  by  the  touch  of  that  unlucky  mon- 
arch. Accl  as  Grecian  Helen  was  a  quf-en,  it  may  here  be 


8  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

mentioned  that  I  was  permitted  to  take  into  my  hand  a  lock 
of  her  golden  hair  and  the  bowl  which  a  sculptor  modelled 
from  the  curve  of  her  perfect  breast.  Here,  likewise,  was 
the  robe  that  smothered  Agamemnon,  Nero's  fiddle,  the  Czar 
Peter's  brandy-bottle,  the  crown  of  Seniiramis,  and  Canute's 
sceptre  which  he  extended  over  the  sea.  That  my  own  land 
may  not  deem  itself  neglected,  let  me  add  that  I  was  favored 
wit  i  a  sight  of  the  skull  of  King  Pliilip,  the  famous  Indian 
chief,  whose  head  the  Puritans  smote  off  and  exhibited  upon 
u  pole. 

"  Show  me  something  else,"  said  I  to  the  virtuoso. 
"  Kings  are  in  such  an  artificial  position,  that  people  in  the 
ordinary  walks  of  life  cannot  feel  an  interest  in  their  relics. 
If  you  could  show  me  the  straw  hat  of  sweet  little  Nell,  I 
would  far  rather  see  it  than  a  king's  golden  crown." 

"  There  it  is,"  said  my  guide,  pointing  carelessly  with  his 
staff  to  the  straw  hat  in  question.  "  But,  indeed,  you  are 
hard  to  please.  Here  are  the  seven-league  boots.  Will  you 
try  them  on  ?  " 

"  Our  modern  railroads  have  superseded  their  use,"  an- 
swered I ;  "  and  as  to  these  cowhide  boots,  I  could  show  you 
quite  as  curious  a  pair  at  the  Transcendental  community  in 
Roxbury." 

We  next  examined  a  collection  of  swords  and  other  weap- 
ons, belonging  to  different  epochs,  but  thrown  together  with- 
out much  attempt  at  arrangement.  Here  was  Arthur's  sword 
Excalibar,  and  that  of  the  Cid  Campeador,  and  the  sword  of 
Brutus  rusted  with  Caesar's  blood  and  his  own,  and  the  sword 
of  Joan  of  Arc,  and  that  of  Horatius,  and  that  with  which 
Virginius  slew  his  daughter,  and  the  one  which  Dionysius 
suspended  over  the  head  of  Damocles.  Here  also  was  Ar- 
ria's  sword,  which  she  plunged  into  her  own  breast,  in  order 
to  taste  of  death  before  her  husband.  The  crooked  blade  of 
Saladin's  cimeter  next  attracted  my  notice.  I  know  not  by 
what  chance,  but  bo  it  happened,  that  the  sword  of  one  of  oui 


A  VIRTUOSO'S   COLLECTION.  9 

militia-generals  was  suspended  between  Don  Quixote's  lance 
and  the  brown  blade  of  Hudibras.  My  heart  throbbed  high 
at  the  sight  of  the  helmet  of  Miltiades  and  the  spear  that 
was  broken  in  the  breast  of  Epaminondas.  I  recognized 
the  shield  of  Achilles  by  its  resemblance  to  the  admirable 
cast  in  the  possession  of  Professor  Felton.  Nothing  in  this 
apartment  interested  me  more  than  Major  Pitcairn's  pistol, 
the  discharge  of  which,  at  Lexington,  began  the  war  of  the 
Revolution,  and  was  reverberated  in  thunder  around  the  land 
for  seven  long  years.  The  bow  of  Ulysses,  though  unstrung 
for  ages,  was  placed  against  the  wall,  together  with  a  sheaf 
of  Robin  Hood's  arrows  and  the  rifle  of  Daniel  Boone. 

"Enough  of  weapons,"  said  I,  at  length;  "although  I 
would  gladly  have  seen .  the  sacred  shield  which  fell  from 
heaven  in  the  time  of  Numa.  And  surely  you  should  obtain 
the  sword  which  Washington  unsheathed  at  Cambridge. 
But  the  collection  does  you  much  credit.  Let  us  pass  on." 

In  the  next  alcove  we  saw  the  golden  thigh  of  Pythago- 
ras, which  had  so  divine  a  meaning ;  and,  by  one  of  the  queer 
analogies  to  which  the  virtuoso  seemed  to  be  addicted,  this 
ancient  emblem  lay  on  the  same  shelf  with  Peter  Stuyve- 
sant's  wooden  leg,  that  was  fabled  to  be  of  silver.  Here  was 
a  remnant  of  the  Golden  Fleece,  and  a  sprig  of  yellow  leaves 
that  resembled  the  foliage  of  a  frost-bitten  elm,  but  was  duly 
authenticated  as  a  portion  of  the  golden  branch  by  which 
^Eneas  gained  admittance  to  the  realm  of  Pluto.  Atalanta's 
golden  apple  and  one  of  the  apples  of  discord  were  wrapped 
in  the  napkin  of  gold  which  Rhampsinitus  brought  from  Ha- 
des ;  and  the  whole  were  deposited  in  the  golden  vase  of 
Bias,  witli  its  inscription :  "  To  THE  WISEST." 

"  And  how  did  you  obtain  this  vase  ?  "  said  I  to  the  vir- 
tuoso. 

"  It  was  given  me  long  ago,"  replied  he,  with  a  scornful 
expression  in  his  eye,  "  because  I  had  learned  to  despise  all 
things." 


10  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

It  had  not  escaped  me  that,  though  the  virtuoso  was  evi- 
dently a  man  of  high  cultivation,  yet  he  seemed  to  lack  sym 
pathy  with  the  spiritual,  the  sublime,  and  the  tender.  Apart 
from  the  whim  that  had  led  him  to  devote  so  much  time, 
pains,  and  expense  to  the  collection  of  this  museum,  he  im- 
pressed me  as  one  of  the  hardest  and  coldest  men  of  the 
world  whom  I  had  ever  met. 

"  To  despise  all  things ! "  repeated  I.  "  This,  at  best,  is 
the  wisdom  of  the  understanding.  It  is  the  creed  of  a  man 
whose  soul,  whose  better  and  diviner  part,  has  never  beeb 
awakened,  or  has  died  out  of  him." 

"  I  did  not  think  you  were  still  so  young,"  said  the  vir- 
tuoso. "  Should  you  live  to  my  years,  you  will  acknowledge 
that  the  vase  of  Bias  was  not  ill  bestowed." 

Without  further  discussion  of  the  point,  he  directed  my 
attention  to  other  curiosities.  I  examined  Cinderella's  little 
glass  slipper,  and  compared  it  with  one  of  Diana's  sandals, 
and  with  Fanny  Elssler's  shoe,  which  bore  testimony  to  the 
muscular  character  of  her  illustrious  foot.  On  the  same 
shelf  were  Thomas  the  Rhymer's  green  velvet  shoes,  and 
the  brazen  shoe  of  Empedocles  which  was  thrown  out  of 
Mount  JEtna.  Anacreon's  drinking-cup  was  placed  in  apt 
juxtaposition  with  one  of  Tom  Moore's  wine-glasses  and 
Circe's  magic  bowl.  These  were  symbols  of  luxury  and 
riot ;  but  near  them  stood  the  cup  whence  Socrates  drank 
his  hemlock,  and  that  which  Sir  Philip  Sidney  put  from  his 
death-parched  lips  to  bestow  the  draught  upon  a  dying  sol- 
dier. Next  appeared  a  cluster  of  tobacco-pipes,  consisting 
of  Sir  Walter  Raleigh's,  the  earliest  on  record,  Dr.  Parr's, 
Charles  Lamb's,  and  the  first  calumet  of  peace  which  was 
ever  smoked  between  a  European  and  an  Indian.  Among 
other  musical  instruments,  I  noticed  the  lyre  of  Orpheus  and 
those  of  Homer  and  Sappho,  Dr.  Franklin's  famous  whistle, 
the  trumpet  of  Anthony  Van  Corlear,  and  the  flute  which 
Goldsmith  played  upon  in  his  rambles  through  the  French 


A   VIRTUOSO'S   COLLECTION.  11 

provinces.  The  staff  of  Peter  the  Hermit  stood  ii.  a  corner 
with  that  of  good  old  Bishop  Jewel,  and  one  of  ivory,  which 
had  belonged  to  Papirius,  the  Roman  Senator.  The  pon- 
derous club  of  Hercules  was  close  at  hand.  The  virtuoso 
showed  me  the  chisel  of  Phidias,  Claude's  palette,  and  the 
brush  of  Apelles,  observing  that  he  intended  to  bestow 
the  former  either  on  Greenough,  Crawford,  or  Powers,  and. 
the  two  latter  upon  Washington  Allston.  There  was  a  small 
vase  of  oracular  gas  from  Delphos,  which  I  trust  will  be 
submitted  to  the  scientific  analysis  of  Professor -Silliman.  I 
was  deeply  moved  on  beholding  a  vial  of  the  tears  into  which 
Niobe  was  dissolved ;  nor  less  so  on  learning  that  a  shapeless 
fragmenUof  salt  was  a  relic  of  that  victim  of  despondency 
and  sinful  regrets,  Lot's  wife.  My  companion  appeared 
to  set  great  value  upon  some  Egyptian  darkness  in  a  black- 
ing-jug. Several  of  the  shelves  were  covered  by  a  collec- 
tion of  coins,  among  which,  however,  I  remember  none  but 
the  Splendid  Shilling,  celebrated  by  Phillips,  and  a  dollar's 
worth  of  the  iron  money  of  Lycurgus,  weighing  about  fifty 
pounds. 

Walking  carelessly  onward,  I  had  nearly  fallen  over  a 
huge  bundle,  like  a  pedler's  pack,  done  up  in  sackcloth, 
and  very  securely  strapped  and  corded. 

"  It  is  Christian's  burden  of  sin,"  said  the  virtuoso. 

"  O,  pray  let  us  open  it ! "  cried  I.  "  For  many  a  year 
I  have  longed  to  know  its  contents." 

"  Look  into  your  own  consciousness  and  memory,"  replied 
the  virtuoso.  "You  will  there  find  a  list  of  whatever  it 
contains." 

As  this  was  an  undeniable  truth,  I  threw  a  melancholy 
look  at  the  burden  and  passed  on.  A  collection  of  old  gar- 
ments, hanging  on  pegs,  was  worthy  of  some  attention,  es- 
pecially the  shirt  of  Nessus,  Caesar's  mantle,  Joseph's  coat 
of  many  colors,  the  Vicar  of  Bray's  cassock,  Goldsmith's 
peach-bloom  suit,  a  pair  of  President  Jefferson's  scarlet 


1*  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

breeches,  John  Randolph's  red-baize  hunting-sin  it,  the  drab 
small-clothes  of  the  Stout  Gentleman,  and  the  rags  of  the 
"  man  all  tattered  and  torn."  George  Fox's  hat  impressed 
me  with  deep  reverence  as  a  relic  of  perhaps  the  truest 
apostle  that  has  appeared  on  earth  for  these  eighteen  hun- 
dred years.  My  eye  was  next  attracted  by  an  old  pair  of 
shears,  which  I  should  have  taken  for  a  memorial  of  some 
famous  tailor,  only  that  the  virtuoso  pledged  his  veracity  that 
they  were  the  identical  scissors  of  Atropos.  He  also  showed 
me  a  broken  hour-glass  which  had  been  thrown  aside  by 
Father  Time,  together  with  the  old  gentleman's  gray  fore- 
lock, tastefully  braided  into  a  brooch.  In  the  hour-glass  was 
the  handful  of  sand,  the  grains  of  which  had  numbered  the 
years  of  the  Cumaean  sibyl.  I  think  that  it  was  in  this 
alcove  that  I  saw  the  inkstand  which  Luther  threw  at  the 
Devil,  and  the  ring  whi^h  Essex,  while  under  sentence  of 
death,  sent  to  Queen  Elizabeth.  And  here  was  the  blood- 
incrusted  pen  of  steel  with  which  Faust  signed  away  his 
salvation. 

The  virtuoso  now  opened  the  door  of  a  closet,  and  showed 
me  a  lamp  burning,  while  three  others  stood  unlighted  by  its 
side.  One  of  the  three  was  the  lamp  of  Diogenes,  another 
that  of  Guy  Fawkes,  and  the  third  that  which  Hero  set  forth 
to  the  midnight  breeze  in  the  high  tower  of  Abydos. 

"  See ! "  said  the  virtuoso,  blowing  with  all  his  force  at  the 
lighted  lamp. 

The  flame  quivered  and  shrank  away  from  his  breath,  but 
clung  to  the  wick,  and  resumed  its  brilliancy  as  soon  as  the 
blast  was  exhausted. 

"  It  is  an  undying  lamp  from  the  tomb  of  Charlemagne," 
observed  my  guide.  "  That  flame  was  kindled  a  thousand 
years  ago." 

"  How  ridiculous  to  kindle  an  unnatural  light  in  tombs ! " 
exclaimed  I.  "  We  should  seek  to  behold  the  dead  in  the 
light  of  heaven.  But  what  is  the  meaning  of  this  chafing- 
dish  of  Blowing  coals  ?  " 


A   VIRTUOSO'S   COLLECTION.  13 

'*  That."  answered  the  virtuoso,  "  is  the  original  fire  which 
Prometheus  stole  from  heaven.  Look  steadfastly  into  it, 
and  you  will  discern  another  curiosity." 

I  gazed  into  that  fire,  —  which,  symbolically,  was  the  origin 
of  all  that  was  bright  and  glorious  in  the  soul  of  man,  —  and 
in  the  midst  of  it,  behold,  a  little  reptile,  sporting  with  evi- 
de  nt  enjoyment  of  the  fervid  heat !  It  was  a  salamander. 

"  What  a  sacrilege ! "  cried  I,  with  inexpressible  disgust. 
"  Can  you  find  no  better  use  for  this  ethereal  fire  than  to 
cherish  a  loathsome  reptile  in  it  ?  Yet  there  are  men  who 
abuse  the  sacred  fire  of  their  own  souls  to  as  foul  and 
guilty  a  purpose." 

The  virtuoso  made  no  answer  except  by  a  dry  laugh  and 
an  assurance  that  the  salamander  was  the  very  same  which 
Benvenuto  Cellini  had  seen  in  his  father's  household  fire. 
He  then  proceeded  to  show  me  other  rarities  ;  for  this  closet 
appeared  to  be  the  receptacle  of  what  he  considered  moet 
valuable  in  his  collection. 

"  There,"  said  he,  "  is  the  Great  Carbuncle  of  the  White 
Mountains." 

I  gazed  with  no  little  interest  at  this  mighty  gem,  which  it 
had  been  one  of  the  wild  projects  of  my  youth  to  discover. 
Possibly  it  might  have  looked  brighter  to  me  in  those  days 
than  now ;  at  all  events,  it  had  not  such  brilliancy  as  to  detain 
me  long  from  the  other  articles  of  the  museum.  The  virtu- 
oso pointed  out  to  me  a  crystalline  stone  which  hung  by  a 
gel  1  chain  against  the  wall. 

*  That  is  the  philosopher's  stone,"  said  he. 

"  And  have  you  the  elixir  vitne  which  generally  accompa- 
nies it  ?  "  inquired  I. 

"  Even  so  ;  this  urn  is  filled  with  it,"  he  replied.  "  A 
draught  would  refresh  you.  Here  is  Hebe's  cup  ;  will  you 
quaff  a  health  from  it?" 

My  heart  thrilled  within  me  at  the  idea  of  sach  a  reviving 
draught ;  for  methought  I  had  great  need  of  it  after  travel 


14  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

ling  so  far  on  the  dusty  road  of  life.  But  I  kucnv  not  whether 
it  were  a  peculiar  glance  in  the  virtuoso's  eye.  or  the  circum- 
stance that  this  most  precious  liquid  was  contained  in  an  an- 
tique sepulchral  urn,  that  made  me  pause.  Then  came  many 
a  thought  with  which,  in  the  calmer  and  better  hours  of  life, 
I  had  strengthened  myself  to  feel  that  Death  is  the  very 
friend  whom,  in  his  due  season,  even  the  happiest  mortal 
should  be  willing  to  embrace. 

"  No  ;  I  desire  not  an  earthly  immortality,"  said  I. 
"  Were  man  to  live  longer  on  the  earth,  the  spiritual  would 
die  out  of  him.  The  spark  of  ethereal  tire  would  be  choked 
by  the  material,  the  sensual.  There  is  a  celestial  something 
within  us  that  requires,  after  a  certain  time,  the  atmosphere 
of  heaven  to  preserve  it  from  decay  and  ruin.  I  will  have 
none  of  this  liquid.  You  do  well  to  keep  it  in  a  sepulchral 
urn  ;  for  it  would  produce  death  while  bestowing  the  shadow 
of  life." 

"  All  this  is  unintelligible  to  me,"  responded  my  guide, 
with  indifference.  "  Life  —  earthly  life  —  is  the  only  good. 
But  you  refuse  the  draught  ?  Well,  it  is  not  likely  to  be 
offered  twice  within  one  man's  experience.  Probably  you 
have  griefs  which  you  seek  to  forget  in  death.  I  can  enable 
you  to  forget  them  in  life.  Will  you  take  a  draught  of 
Lethe?" 

As  he  spoke,  the  virtuoso  took  from  the  shelf  a  crystal 
vase  containing  a  sable  liquor,  which  caught  no  reflected 
i  nage  from  the  objects  around. 

"  Not  for  the  world  ! "  exclaimed  I,  shrinking  back.  "  I 
r-an  spare  none  of  my  recollections,  not  even  those  of  error 
or  sorrow.  They  are  all  alike  the  food  of  my  spirit.  As 
well  never  to  have  lived  as  to  lose  them  now." 

Without  further  parley  we  passed  to  the  next  alcove,  the 
shelves  of  which  were  burdened  with  ancient  volumes  and 
with  those  rolls  of  papyrus  in  which  was  treasured  up  the 
eldest  wisdom  of  the  earth.  Perhaps  the  most  valuable 


A  VIRTUOSO'S  COLLECTION.  15 

work  in  the  collection,  to  a  bibliomaniac,  was  the  Book  of 
Hermes.  For  my  part,  however,  I  would  have  given  a 
higher  price  for  those  six  of  the  Sibyl's  books  which  Tarquiii 
refused  to  purchase,  and  which  the  virtuoso  informed  me  he 
had  himself  found  in  the  cave  of  Trophonius.  Doubtless 
these  old  volumes  contain  prophecies  of  the  fate  :f  Rome, 
both  as  respects  the  decline  and  fall  of  her  temporal  empire 
and  the  rise  of  her  spiritual  one.  Not  without  value,  like- 
wise, was  the  work  of  Anaxagoras  on  Nature,  hitherto  sup 
posed  to  be  irrecoverably  lost,  and  the  missing  treatises  of 
Longinus,  by  which  modern  criticism  might  profit,  and  those 
books  of  Livy  for  which  the  classic  student  has  so  long  sor- 
rowed without  hope.  Among  these  precious  tomes  I  observed 
the  original  manuscript  of  the  Koran,  and  also  that  of  the 
Mormon  Bible  in  Joe  Smith's  authentic  autograph.  Alex- 
ander's copy  of  the  Iliad  was  also  there,  enclosed  in  the 
jewelled  casket  of  Darius,  still  fragrant  of  the  perfumes 
which  the  Persian  kept  in  it. 

Opening  an  iron-clasped  volume,  bound  in  black  leather,  1 
discovered  it  to  be  Cornelius  Agrippa's  book  of  magic ;  and 
it  was  rendered  still  more  interesting  by  the  fact  that  many 
flowers,  ancient  and  modern,  were  pressed  between  its  leaves. 
Here  was  a  rose  from  Eve's  bridal  bower,  and  all  those  red 
and  wliite  roses  which  were  plucked  in  the  garden  of  the 
Temple  by  the  partisans  of  York  and  Lancaster.  Here  was 
Halleck's  Wild  Rose  of  Alloway.  Cowper  had  contributed 
a  Sensitive-Plant,  and  Wordsworth  an  Eglantine,  and  Burns 
a  Mountain  Daisy,  and  Kirke  Wliite  a  Star  of  Bethlehem, 
and  Longfellow  a  Sprig  of  Fennel,  with  its  yellow  flowers. 
James  Russell  Lowell  had  given  a  Pressed  Flower,  but  fra- 
grant still,  which  had  been  shadowed  in  the  Rhine.  There 
was  also  a  sprig  from  Southey's  Holly-Tree.  One  of  the 
most  beautiful  specimens  was  a  Fringed  Gentian,  which 
had  been  plucked  and  preserved  for  immortality  by  Bryant. 
From  Jones  Very,  a  poet  whose  voice  is  scarcely  heard 


16  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

among  us  by  reason  of  its  depth,  there  was  a  Windflower 
and  a  Columbine. 

As  I  closed  Cornelius  Agrippa's  magic  volume,  an  old, 
mildewed  letter  fell  upon  the  floor.  It  proved  to  be  an  au- 
tograph from  the  Flying  Dutchman  to  his  wife.  I  could 
linger  no  longer  among  books ;  for  the  afternoon  was  waning, 
and  there  was  yet  much  to  see.  The  bare  mention  of  a  few 
more  curiosities  must  suffice.  The  immense  skull  of  Poly- 
phemus was  recognizable  by  the  cavernous  hollow  in  the 
centre  of  the  forehead  where  once  had  blazed  the  giant's 
single  eye.  The  tub  of  Diogenes,  Medea's  caldron,  and 
Psyche's  vase  of  beauty  were  placed  one  within  another. 
Pandora's  box,  without  the  lid,  stood  next,  containing  noth- 
ing but  the  girdle  of  Venus,  which  had  been  carelessly  flung 
into  it.  A  bundle  of  birch  rods  which  had  been  used  by 
Shens tone's  schoolmistress  were  tied  up  with  the  Countess 
of  Salisbury's  garter.  I  know  not  which  to  value  most,  a 
roc's  egg  as  big  as  an  ordinary  hogshead,  or  the  shell  of  the 
egg  which  Columbus  set  upon  its  end.  Perhaps  the  most 
delicate  article  in  the  whole  museum  was  Queen  Mab's 
chariot,  which,  to  guard  it  from  the  touch  of  meddlesome 
fingers,  was  placed  under  a  glass  tumbler. 

Several  of  the  shelves  were  occupied  by  specimens  of 
entomology.  Feeling  but  little  interest  in  the  science,  1 
noticed  only  Anacreon's  grasshopper,  and  a  humble-bee  which 
had  been  presented  to  the  virtuoso  by  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 

In  the  part  of  the  hall  which  we  had  now  reached  I  ob- 
served a  curtain,  that  descended  from  the  ceiling  to  the  floor 
in  voluminous  folds,  of  a  depth,  richness,  and  magnificence 
which  I  had  never  seen  equalled.  It  was  not  to  be  doubted 
that  this  splendid  though  dark  and  solemn  veil  concealed  a 
portion  of  the  museum  even  richer  hi  wonders  than  that 
tlirough  which  I  had  already  passed ;  but,  on  my  attempting 
to  grasp  the  edge  of  the  curtain  and  draw  it  aside,  it  proved 
to  be  an  illusive  picture. 


A    VIRTUOSO'S   COLLECTION.  17 

"  You  need  not  blush/'  remarked  the  virtuoso  ;  "  for  that 
same  curtain  deceived  Zeuxis.  It  is  the  celebrated  painting 
of  Parrhasius." 

In  a  range  with  the  curtain  there  were  a  number  of  other 
choice  pictures  by  artists  of  ancient  days.  Here  was  the  fa- 
mous cluster  of  grapes  by  Zeuxis,  so  admirably  depicted  that 
it  seemed  as  if  the  ripe  juice  were  bursting  forth.  As  to 
the  picture  of  the  old  woman  by  the  same  illustrious  painter, 
and  which  was  so  ludicrous  that  he  himself  died  with  laugh- 
inn  at  it,  I  cannot  say  that  it  particularly  moved  my  risibility. 
Ancient  humor  seems  to  have  little  power  over  modern  mus- 
cles. Here,  also,  was  the  horse  painted  by  Apelles,  which 
livinjr  liprses  neighed  at ;  his  first  portrait  of  Alexander 
the  Great ;  and  his  last  unfinished  picture  of  Venus  asleep. 
Each  of  these  works  of  art,  together  with  others  by  Parrha- 
sius,  Timantlies,  Polygnotus,  Apollodorus,  Pausias,  and  Pam- 
philus,  required  more  time  and  study  than  I  could  bestow  for 
the  adequate  perception  of  their  merits.  I  shall  therefore 
leave  them  undescribed  and  uncriticised,  nor  attempt  to 
settle  the  question  of  superiority  between  ancient  and  mod- 
ern art. 

For  the  same  reason  I  shall  pass  lightly  over  the  speci- 
mens of  antique  sculpture  which  this  indefatigable  and  for- 
tunate virtuoso  had  dug  out  of  the  dust  of  fallen  empires. 
Here  was  ^Etion's  cedar  statue  of  ^Esculapius,  much  de- 
cayed, and  Alcon's  iron  statue  of  Hercules,  lamentably 
rusted.  Here  was  the  statue  of  Victory,  six  feet  high,  which 
the  Jupiter  Olympus  of  Phidias  had  held  in  his  hand.  Here 
was  a  forefinger  of  the  Colossus  of  Rhodes,  seven  feet  in 
length.  Here  was  the  Venus  Urania  of  Phidias,  and  other 
images  of  male  and  female  beauty  or  grandeur,  wrought  by 
sculptors  who  appear  never  to  have  debased  their  souls  by 
the  sight  of  any  meaner  forms  than  those  of  gods  or  godlike 
mortals.  But  the  deep  simplicity  of  these  great  works  was 
not  to  be  comprehended  by  a  mind  excited  and  disturbed,  as 


18  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

mine  was,  by  the  various  objects  that  had  recently  been  pre- 
sented to  it.  I  therefore  turned  away  with  merely  a  passing 
glance,  resolving  on  some  future  occasion  to  brood  over  each 
individual  statue  and  picture  until  my  inmost  spirit  should 
feel  their  excellence.  In  this  department,  again,  I  noticed 
the  tendency  to  whimsical  combinations  and  ludicrous  analo- 
gies which  seemed  to  influence  many  of  the  arrangements  of 
the  museum.  The  wooden  statue  so  well  known  as  the 
Palladium  of  Troy  was  placed  in  close  apposition  with  the 
wooden  head  of  General  Jackson  which  was  stolen  a  few 
years  since  from  the  bows  of  the  frigate  Constitution. 

We  had  now  completed  the  circuit  of  the  spacious  hall, 
and  found  ourselves  again  near  the  door.  Feeling  somewhat 
wearied  with  the  survey  of  so  many  novelties  and  antiqui- 
ties, I  sat  down  upon  Cowper's  sofa,  while  the  virtuoso  threw 
himself  carelessly  into  Rabelais's  easy-chair.  Casting  my 
eyes  upon  the  opposite  wall,  I  was  surprised  to  perceive  the 
shadow  of  a  man  nickering  unsteadily  across  the  wainscot, 
and  looking  as  if  it  were  stirred  by  some  breath  of  air  that 
found  its  way  through  the  door  or  windows.  No  substantial 
figure  was  visible  from  which  this  shadow  might  be  thrown ; 
nor,  had  there  been  such,  was  there  any  sunshine  that  would 
have  caused  it  to  darken  upon  the  wall. 

"  It  is  Peter  Schlemihl's  shadow,"  observed  the  virtuoso, 
"  and  one  of  the  most  valuable  articles  in  my  collection." 

"  Methinks  a  shadow  would  have  made  a  fitting  doorkeeper 
to  such  a  museum,"  said  I ;  "  although,  indeed,  yonder  figure 
has  something  strange  and  fantastic  about  him,  which  suits 
well  enough  with  many  of  the  impressions  which  I  have 
received  here.  Pray,  who  is  he  ?  " 

While  speaking,  I  gazed  more  scrutinizingly  than  before 
at  the  antiquated  presence  of  the  person  who  had  admitted 
me,  and  who  still  sat  on  his  bench  with  the  same  restless 
aspect,  and  dim,  confused,  questioning  anxiety  that  I  had 
noticed  on  my  first  entrance.  At  this  moment  lie  looked 


A  VIRTUOSO'S  COLLECTION.  19 

eagerly  toward  us,  and,  half  starting  from  liis  seat,  addressed 
me. 

"  I  beseech  you,  kind  sir,"  said  he,  in  a  cracked,  melan- 
choly tone,  "  have  pity  on  the  most  unfortunate  man  in  the 
world.  For  Heaven's  sake,  answer  me  a  single  question ! 
Is  this  the  town  of  Boston  ?  " 

"  You  have  recognized  him  now,"  said  the  virtuoso.  "  It 
is  Peter  Rugg,  the  missing  man.  I  chanced  to  meet  him 
the  other  day  still  in  search  of  Boston,  and  conducted  him 
hither  ;  and,  as  he  could  not  succeed  in  finding  his  friends,  I 
have  taken  him  into  my  service  as  doorkeeper.  He  is  some- 
what too  apt  to  ramble,  but  otherwise  a  man  of  trust  and 
integrity.'** 

"  And  might  I  venture  to  ask,"  continued  I,  "  to  whom  am 
I  indebted  for  this  afternoon's  gratification  ?  " 

The  virtuoso,  before  replying,  laid  his  hand  upon  an  an- 
tique dart  or  javelin,  the  rusty  steel  head  of  which  seemed 
to  have  been  blunted,  as  if  it  had  encountered  the  resistance 
of  a  tempered  shield,  or  breastplate. 

"  My  name  has  not  been  without  its  distinction  in  the 
world  for  a  longer  period  than  that  of  any  other  man  alive," 
answered  he.  "  Yet  many  doubt  of  my  existence  ;  perhaps 
you  will  do  so  to-morrow.  This  dart  which  I  hold  in  my 
hand  was  once  grim  Death's  own  weapon.  It  served  him 
well  for  the  space  of  four  thousand  years  ;  but  it  iell  bluuteJ 
as  you  see,  when  he  directed  it  against  my  breast." 

These  words  were  spoken  with  the  calm  and  cold  courtesy 
of  manner  that  had  characterized  this  singular  personage 
throughout  our  interview.  I  fancied,  it  is  time,  that  there 
was  a  bitterness  indefinably  mingled  with  his  tone,  as  of  one 
cut  off  from  natural  sympathies  and  blasted  with  a  doom  that 
had  been  inflicted  on  no  other  human  being,  and  by  the  re- 
sults of  which  he  had  ceased  to  be  human.  Yet,  withal,  it 
seemed  one  of  the  most  terrible  consequences  of  that  doom 
that  the  victim  no  longer  regarded  it  as  a  calamity,  but  had 


2(J  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

finally  accepted  it  as  the  greatest  good  that  could  lave 
befallen  him. 

"  You  are  the  Wandering  Jew  ! "  exclaimed  I. 

The  virtuoso  bowed,  without  emotion  of  any  kind,  for,  by 
centuries  of  custom,  he  had  almost  lost  the  sense  of  strange- 
ness in  •  his  fate,  and  was  but  imperfectly  conscious  of  the 
astonishment  and  awe  with  which  it  affected  such  as  are 
capable  of  death. 

"  Your  doom  is  indeed  a  fearful  one  !  "  said  I,  with  irre- 
pressible feeling  and  a  frankness  that  afterwards  startled  me ; 
"  yet  perhaps  the  ethereal  spirit  is  not  entirely  extinct  under 
all  tliis  coiTupted  or  frozen  mass  of  earthly  life.  Perhaps 
the  immortal  spark  may  yet  be  rekindled  by  a  breath  of 
heaven.  Perhaps  you  may  yet  be  permitted  to  die  before  it 
is  too  late  to  live  eternally.  You  have  my  prayers  for  such 
a  consummation.  Farewell." 

"  Your  prayers  will  be  in  vain,"  replied  he,  with  a  smile  of 
cold  triumph.  "  My  destiny  is  linked  with  the  realities  of 
earth.  You  are  welcome  to  your  visions  and  shadows  of  a 
future  state ;  but  give  me  what  I  can  see,  and  touch,  and 
understand,  and  I  ask  no  more." 

"  It  is  indeed  too  late,"  thought  I.  "  The  soul  is  dead 
within  him." 

Struggling  between  pity  and  horror,  I  extended  my  hand, 
to  which  the  virtuoso  gave  his  own,  still  with  the  habitual 
courtesy  of  a  man  of  the  world,  but  without  a  single  heart- 
throb of  human  brotherhood.  The  touch  seemed  like  ice, 
yet  I  know  not  whether  morally  or  physically.  As  I  de- 
paried,  he  bade  me  observe  that  the  inner  door  of  the  hall 
was  constructed  with  the  ivory  leaves  of  the  gal-sway 
through  which  JEneas  and  the  Sibyl  had  been  disn  ir>sed 
from  Hades. 


DORA. 

BY  ALFRED  TENNYSON. 


WITH  Fanner  Allan  at  the  farm  abode 
%  William  and  Dora.     William  was  his  son, 
And  she  his  niece.     He  often  looked  at  them, 
And  often  thought,  "  I  '11  make  them  man  and  wife." 
Now  Dora  felt  her  uncle's  will  in  all, 
And  yearned  towards  William ;  but  the  youth,  because 
He  had  been  always  with  her  in  the  house, 
Thought  not  of  Dora. 

Then  there  came  a  day 

When  Allan  called  his  son,  and  said,  "  My  son : 
I  married  late,  but  I  would  wish  to  see 
My  grandchild  on  my  knees  before  I  die  : 
And  I  have  set  my  heart  upon  a  match. 
Now  therefore  look  to  Dora ;  she  is  well 
To  look  to  ;  thrifty  too  beyond  her  age. 
She  is  my  brother's  daughter :  he  and  I 
Had  once  hard  words,  and  parted,  and  he  died 
In  foreign  lands  ;  but  for  his  sake  I  bred 
His  daughter  Dora :  take  her  for  your  wife  ; 
For  I  have  wished  this  marriage,  night  and  day, 
For  many  years."     But  William  answered  short 
"  I  cannot  marry  Dora  ;  by  my  life, 
I  will  not  many  Dora,"     Then  the  old  man 
Was  wroth,  and  doubled  up  his  hands,  and  said 


22  ALFRED  TENNYSON. 

"  You  will  not,  boy !  you  dare  to  answer  thus ! 
But  in  my  time  a  father's  word  was  law, 
And  so  it  shall  be  now  for  me.     Look  to 't ; 
Consider,  William :  take  a  month  to  think, 
And  let  me  have  an  answer  to  my  wish ; 
Or,  by  the  Lord  that  made  me,  you  shall  pack, 
And  nevermore  darken  my  doors  again  ! " 
But  William  answered  madly ;  bit  Ids  lips, 
And  broke  away.     The  more  he  looked  at  her, 
The  less  he  liked  her ;  and  his  ways  were  harsh  ; 
But  Dora  bore  them  meekly.     Then  before 
The  month  was  out  he  left  his  father's  house, 
And  hired  himself  to  work  within  the  fields ; 
And  half  in  love,  half  spite,  he  wooed  and  wed 
A  laborer's  daughter,  Mary  Morrison. 

Then,  when  the  bells  were  ringing,  Allan  called 
His  niece  and  said :  "  My  girl,  I  love  you  well ; 
But  if  you  speak  with  him  that  was  my  son, 
Or  change  a  word  with  her  he  calls  his  wife, 
My  home  is  none  of  yours.     My  will  is  law." 
And  Dora  promised,  being  meek.     She  thought, 
"  It  cannot  be  :  my  uncle's  mind  will  change  ! " 

And  days  went  on,  and  there  was  born  a  boy 
To  William  ;  then  distresses  came  on  him  ; 
And  day  by  day  he  passed  his  father's  gate, 
Heart-broken,  and  his  father  helped  him  not. 
But  Dora  stored  what  little  she  could  save, 
And  sent  it  them  by  stealth,  nor  did  they  know 
Who  sent  it ;  till  at  last  a  fever  seized 
On  William,  and  in  harvest-time  he  died. 

Then  Dora  went  to  Mary.     Mary  sat 
And  looked  with  tears  upon  her  boy,  and  thought 


DORA.  23 

Hard  tilings  of  Dora.     Dora  came  and  said  : 

"  I  have  obeyed  my  uncle  until  now, 

And  I  have  sinned,  for  it  was  all  through  me 

This  evil  came  on  William  at  the  first. 

But,  Mary,  for  the  sake  of  him  that 's  gone, 

And  for  your  sake,  the  woman  that  he  chose, 

Aw1  for  this  orphan,  I  am  come  to  you  : 

y  ji,  know  there  has  not  been  for  these  five  years 

So  full  a  harvest :  let  me  take  the  boy, 

And  I  will  set  him  in  my  uncle's  eye 

Among  the  wheat ;  that  when  his  heart  is  glad 

Of  the  full  harvest,  he  may  see  the  boy, 

And  bless  him  for  the  sake  of  him  that 's  gone. 

And  Dora  took  the  child,  and  went  her  way 
Across  the  wheat,  and  sat  upon  a  mound 
That  was  unsown ;  where  many  poppies  grew. 
Far  off  the  fanner  came  into  the  field, 
And  spied  her  not ;  for  none  of  all  his  men 
Dare  tell  him  Dora  waited  with  the  child ; 
And  Dora  would  have  risen  and  gone  to  him, 
But  her  heart  failed  her ;  and  the  reapers  reaped, 
And  the  sun  fell,  and  all  the  land  was  dark. 

But  when  the  morrow  came,  she  rose  and  took 
The  child  once  more,  and  sat  upon  the  mound ; 
And  made  a  little  wreath  of  all  the  flowers 
That  grew  about,  and  tied  it  round  his  hat 
To  make  him  pleasing  in  her  uncle's  eye. 
Then  when  the  farmer  passed  into  the  field 
He  spied  her,  and  he  left  his  men  at  work, 
And  came  and  said,  "  Where  were  you  yesterday  ? 
Whose  child  is  that  ?     What  are  you  doing  here  ?  " 
So  Dora  cast  her  eyes  upon  the  ground, 
And  answered  softly,  "  This  is  William's  child ! " 


24  ALFRED  TENNYSON. 

"  And  did  I  not,"  said  Allan,  "  did  I  not 

Forbid  you,  Dora  ?  "     Dora  said  c.gain  : 

"  Do  with  me  as  you  will,  but  take  the  child, 

And  bless  him  for  the  sake  of  him  that 's  gone  ! n 

And  Allan  said,  "  I  see  it  is  a  trick 

Got  up  betwixt  you  and  the  woman  there. 

I  must  be  taught  my  duty,  and  by  you  ! 

You  knew  my  word  was  law,  and  yet  you  dared 

To  slight  it.     Well  —  for  I  will  take  the  boy  ; 

"But  go  you  hence,  and  never  see  me  more." 

So  saying,  he  took  the  boy,  that  cried  aloud 
And  struggled  hard.     The  wreath  of  flowers  fell 
At  Dora's  feet.     She  bowed  upon  her  hands, 
And  the  boy's  cry  came  to  her  from  the  field, 
More  and  more  distant.     She  bowed  down  liei  head, 
Remembering  the  day  when  first  she  came, 
And  all  the  things  that  had  been.     She  bowed  down 
And  wept  in  secret ;  and  the  reapers  reaped, 
And  the  sun  fell,  and  all  the  land  was  dark. 

Then  Dora  went  to  Mary's  house,  and  stood 
Upon  the  threshold.     Mary  saw  the  boy 
"Was  not  with  Dora.     She  broke  out  in  praise 
To  God,  that  helped  her  in  her  widowhood. 
And  Dora  said,  "  My  uncle  took  the  boy  ; 
But,  Mary,  let  me  live  and  work  with  you : 
He  says  that  he  will  never  see  me  more." 
Then  answered  Mary,  "  This  shall  never  be, 
That  thou  shouldst  take  my  trouble  on  thyself: 
And,  now  I  think,  he  shall  not  have  the  boy, 
For  he  will  teach  him  hardness,  and  to  slight 
His  mother;  therefore  thou  and  I  will  go, 
And  I  will  have  my  boy,  and  bring  him  home , 
And  I  will  beg  of  him  to  take  thee  back ; 


DORA.  25 

But  if  he  will  not  take  thee  back  again, 
Then  thou  and  I  will  live  within  one  house, 
And  work  for  William's  child,  until  he  grows 
Of  age  to  help  us." 

So  the  women  kissed 

Each  other,  and  set  out  and  reached  the  farm. 
The  door  was  off  the  latch  :  they  peeped  and  saw 
The  boy  set  up  betwixt  his  grandsire's  knees, 
Who  thrust  him  in  the  hollows  of  his  arm, 
And  clapt  him  on  the  hands  and  on  the  cheeks, 
Like  one  that  loved  him  ;  and  the  lad  stretched  out 
And  babbled  for  the  golden  seal  that  hung 
From  Allan's  watch,  and  sparkled  by  the  fire. 
Then  they  came  in  ;  but  when  the  boy  beheld 
His  mother,  he  cried  out  to  come  to  her : 
And  Allan  set  him  down,  and  Mary  said :  — 

"  0  Father !  —  if  you  let  me  call  you  so  — 
I  never  came  a-begging  for  myself, 
Or  William,  or  this  child  ;  but  now  I  come 
For  Dora :  take  her  back  ;  she  loves  you  well. 

0  Sir,  when  William  died,  he  died  at  peace 
With  all  men  ;  for  I  asked  him,  and  he  said, 
He  could  not  ever  rue  his  marrying  me.  — 

1  had  been  a  patient  wife :  but,  Sir,  he  said 
That  he  was  wrong  to  cross  his  father  thus : 

1  God  bless  him ! '  he  said, '  and  may  he  never  know 
The  troubles  I  have  gone  through  ! '     Then  he  turned 
His  face  and  passed  —  unhappy  that  I  am ! 
But  now,  Sir,  let  me  have  my  boy,  for  you 
Will  make  him  hard,  and  he  will  learn  to  slight 
His  father's  memory ;  and  take  Dora  back, 
And  let  all  this  be  as  it  was  before." 

So  Mary  said,  and  Dora  hid  her  face 
By  Mary.     There  was  silence  in  the  room ; 


26  ALFRED   TENNYSON. 

And  all  at  once  the  old  man  burst  in  sobs :  — 

"  I  have  been  to  blame  —  to  blame  !     I  have  killed  my  son  ! 

I  have  killed  him  !  —  but  I  loved  him  —  my  dear  son  ! 

May  God  forgive  me  !  —  I  have  been  to  blame. 

Kiss  me,  my  children !  " 

Then  they  clung  about 

The  old  man's  neck,  and  kissed  him  many  times. 
And  all  the  man  was  broken  with  remorse, 
And  nil  his  love  came  back  a  hundred-fold; 
And  for  three  hours  he  sobbed  o'er  William's  child, 
Thinking  of  William. 

So  those  four  abode 

Within  one  house  together  ;  and  as  years 
Went  forward,  Mary  took  another  mate ; 
But  Dora  lived  unmarried  till  her  death. 


A  TALE   OF  WITCHCRAFT 


BY  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 


MARGARET  BARCLAY,  wife  of  Archibald  Dein. 
burgess  of  Irvine,  had  been  slandered  by  her  sister 
in-la\v.  Janet  Lyal,  the  spouse  of  John  Dein,  brother  of 
Archibald,  and  by  John  Dein  himself,  as  guilty  of  some  act 
of  theft.  Upon  this  provocation  Margaret  Barclay  raised  an 
action  of  slander  before  the  church  court,  which  prosecution, 
after  some  procedure,  the  kirk-session  discharged,  by  direct- 
ing a  reconciliation  between  the  parties.  Nevertheless,  al- 
though the  two  women  shook  hands  before  the  court,  yet  the 
said  Margaret  Barclay  declared  that  she  gave  her  hand  only 
in  obedience  to  the  kirk-session,  but  that  she  still  retained 
her  hatred  and  ill-will  against  John  Dein  and  his  wife  Janet 
Lyal.  About  this  time  the  bark  of  John  Dein  was  about  to 
sail  for  France,  and  Andrew  Train,  or  Tran,  Provost  of  the 
burgh  of  Irvine,  who  was  an  owner  of  the  vessel,  went  with 
him,  to  superintend  the  commercial  part  of  the  voyage.  Two 
other  merchants  of  some  consequence  went  in  the  same  ves- 
sel, with  a  sufficient  number  of  mariners.  Margaret  Barclay, 
the  revengeful  person  already  mentioned,  was  heard  to  im- 
precate curses  upon  the  provost's  argosy,  praying  to  God 
that  sea  nor  salt-water  might  never  bear  the  ship,  and  that 
partans  (crabs)  might  eat  the  crew  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea 
When,  under  these  auspices,  the  ship  was  absent  on  her 
voyage,  a  vagabond  fellow,  named  John  Stewart,  pretending 


28  SIR   WALTER   SCOTT. 

to  have  knowledge  of  jugglery,  and  to  possess  the  power  of 
a  spaeman,  came  to  the  residence  of  Tran,  the  provost,  and 
dropped  explicit  hints  that  the  ship  was  lost,  and  that  the 
good  woman  of  the  house  was  a  widow.  The  sad  truth  was 
afterward  learned  on  more  certain  information.  Two  of  the 
seamen,  after  a  space  of  doubt  and  anxiety,  arrived  with  the 
melancholy  tidings  that  the  bark  of  which  John  Dein  was 
skipper  and  Provost  Tran  part-owner  had  been  wrecked  on 
the  coast  of  England,  near  Padstow,  when  all  on  board  had 
been  lost,  except  the  two  sailors  who  brought  the  notice. 
Suspicion  of  sorcery,  in  those  days  easily  awakened,  was 
fixed  on  Margaret  Barclay,  who  had  imprecated  curses  on 
the  ship ;  and  on  John  Stewart,  the  juggler,  who  had  seemed 
to  know  of  the  evil  fate  of  the  voyage  before  he  could  have 
become  acquainted  with  it  by  natural  means. 

Stewart,  who  was  first  apprehended,  acknowledged  that 
Margaret  Barclay,  the  other  suspected  person,  had  applied 
to  him  to  teach  her  some  magic  arts,  "  in  order  that  she  might 
get  gear,  kye's  milk,  love  of  man,  her  heart's  desire  on  such 
persons  as  had  done  her  wrong,  and,  finally,  that  she  might 
obtain  the  fruit  of  sea  and  land."  Stewart  declared  that  he 
denied  to  Margaret  that  he  possessed  the  said  arts  himself, 
or  had  the  power  of  communicating  them.  So  far  was  well ; 
but,  true  or  false,  he  added  a  string  of  circumstances,  whether 
voluntarily  declared  or  extracted  by  torture,  which  tended  to 
fix  the  cause  of  the  loss  of  the  bark  on  Margaret  Barclay. 
He  had  come,  he  said,  to  this  woman's  house  in  Irvine, 
shortly  after  the  ship  set  sail  from  harbor.  He  went  to 
Margaret's  house  by  night,  and  found  her  engaged,  with  other 
two  women,  in  making  clay  figures ;  one  of  the  figures  was 
made  handsome,  with  fair  hair,  supposed  to  represent  Pro- 
vost Tran.  They  then  proceeded  to  mould  a  figure  of  a  ship 
in  clay,  and  during  this  labor  the  Devil  appeared  to  the 
company  in  the  shape  of  a  handsome  black  lapdog,  such  as 
ladies  u=e  to  keep  He  added  that  the  whole  party  left  the 


A  TALE   OF   WITCHCRAFT.  29 

house  together,  and  went  into  an  empty  waste-house  nearer 
the  seaport,  which  house  he  pointed  out  to  the  city  magis- 
trates. From  this  house  they  went  to  the  seaside,  followed 
by  the  black  lapdog  aforesaid,  and  cast  hi  the  figures  of  claj 
representing  the  ship  and  the  men  ;  after  which  the  sea  raged 
roared,  and  became  red  like  the  juice  of  madder  in  a  dyer'* 
caldron. 

This  confession  having  been  extorted  from  the  unfortunate 
juggler,  the  female  acquaintances  of  Margaret  Barclay  were 
next  convened,  that  he  might  point  out  her  associates  in  form- 
ing the  charm,  when  he  pitched  upon  a  woman  called  Isobel 
Insh,  or  Taylor,  who  resolutely  denied  having  ever  seen  him 
before.  vShe  was  imprisoned,  however,  in  the  belfry  of  the 
church.  An  addition  to  the  evidence  against  the  poor  old 
woman  Insh  was  then  procured  from  her  own  daughter,  Mar- 
garet Tailzeour,  a  child  of  eight  years  old,  who  lived  as  ser- 
vant with  Margaret  Barclay,  the  person  principally  accused. 
This  child,  who  was  keeper  of  a  baby  belonging  to  Margaret 
Barclay,  either  from  terror,  or  the  innate  love  of  falsehood 
which  we  have  observed  as  proper  to  childhood,  declared, 
.that  she  was  present  when  the  fatal  models  of  clay  were 
formed,  and  that,  in  plunging  them  in  the  sea,  Margaret  Bar- 
clay, her  mistress,  and  her  mother,  Isobel  Insh,  were  assisted 
by  another  woman,  and  a  girl  of  fourteen  years  old,  who 
dwelt  at  the  town-head.  Legally  considered,  the  evidence 
of  this  child  was  contradictory,  and  inconsistent  with  the  con- 
fession of  the  juggler,  for  it  assigned  other  particulars  and 
dramatis  persona  in  many  respects  different.  But  all  was 
accounted  sufficiently  regular,  especially  since  the  girl  failed 
not  to  swear  to  the  presence  of  the  black  dog,  to  whose  ap- 
pearance she  also  added  the  additional  terrors  of  that  of  a 
black  man.  The  dog  also,  according  to  her  account,  emitted 
flashes  from  its  jaws  and  nostrils,  to  illuminate  the  witches 
during  the  performance  of  the  spell.  The  child  maintained 
this  «tory  even  to  her  mother's  face  only  alleging  that  Isobel 


.".0  SIR    WALTKR    SCOTT. 

Insli  remained  behind  in  the  waste-house,  and  was  not  pres- 
cut  when  tlic  images  were,  put  into  the  sea.  Kor  her  own 
countenance  and  presence  on  the  occasion,  and  to  insure  her 
secrecy,  her  mistress  promised  her  a  pair  of  new  shoes. 

John  Stewart,  being  re-examined,  and  confronted  with  the 
child,  was  easily  compelled  to  allow  that  the  "little  smatoh- 
et"  was  there,  and  to  give;  that  marvellous  account  of  hid 
correspondence  with  Klfland,  which  we  have  given  else- 
where.. 

The  conspiracy  thus  far,  ;us  they  conceived,  disclosed,  the 
magistrates  and  ministers  wrought  hard  with  Jsohel  Insh,  tc 
prevail  upon  her  to  tell  the,  truth  ;  and  she  at  len-jth  acknowl- 
edged her  presence  at  the  time  when  the  models  of  the  ship 
and  mariners  were  destroyed,  but  endeavored  80  to  modify 
her  declaration  as  to  deny  all  personal  accession  to  the  guilt. 
This  poor  creature  almost  admitted  the  supernatural  powers 
imputed  to  her,  promising  liailie  Dunlop  (also  a  mariner), 
by  whom  she  was  imprisoned,  that  if  he  would  dismi.-s  her, 
he  should  never  make  a  had  voyage,  hut  have  success  in  all 
his  dealings  by  sea  and  land.  She  was  finally  brought  to 
promise  that  she  would  fully  confess  the  whole  that  she  knew 
of  the  affair  on  the  morrow. 

But  finding  herself  in  so  hard  a  strait,  the  unfortunate 
woman  made  use  of  the  darkness  to  attempt  an  escape. 
AVith  this  view  she  got  out  by  a  hack  window  of  the  belfry, 
although,  says  the  report,  there  were  "iron  bolts,  locks,  and 
fetters  on  her";  and  attained  the  roof  of  the  church,  where, 
losing  her  footing,  she  sustained  a  severe  fall,  and  was  greatly 
bruised.  IJcing  apprehended,  ]>ailie  Dunlop  again  urged 
her  to  confess;  but  the  poor  woman  was  determined  to  ap- 
peal to  a  more  merciful  tribunal,  and  maintained  her  inno- 
cence to  the  last  minute  of  her  life,  denying  all  that  she  had 
formerly  admitted,  and  dying  five  days  after  her  fall  from 
the  roof  of  the  church.  The  inhabitants  of  Irvine  attributed 
her  death  to  poisqn. 


A  TALE  OF  WITCHCRAFT.  .')  1 

The  seem  »  thicken,  for  a  commission  was  grunted 

for  the  trial  of  the  two  remaining  persons  accused,  namely, 
Stewart  the  juggler  and  Margaret  Barclay.  The  day  of 
trial  being  arrived,  the  following  singular  events  took  place, 
which  we  give  as  stated  in  the  record. 

"  My  Lord  and  Earl  of  Kglintoune  (who  Iwelln  -vitliin 
the  space  of  one  mile  to  the  said  burgh),  having  eomo 
to  the  said  burgh  at  the  earnest  request  of  the  said  Justices, 
.ing  to  them  of  his  lordship's  countenance,  concur- 
and  assistance,  in  trying  of  the  aforesaid  devilish 
practices,  conform  to  the  tenor  of  the  foresaid  commission, 
the  said  John  Stewart,  for  his  better  preserving  to  the 
day  of  the'^issize,  was  put  in  a  sure  lockfast  booth,  where 
no  manner  of  person  might  have  accc.-s  to  him  till  the 
-Siting  of  the  Justice  Court,  and  for  avoiding  of  putting 
violent  hands  on  himself,  he  was  very  strictly  guarded,  and 
fettered  by  the  arms,  as  use  is.  And  upon  that  same  day 
of  the  assize,  about  half  an  hour  before  the  downsitting  oi' 
the  Justice  Court,  Mr.  David  Dickson,  minister  at  Irvine, 
and  Mr.  George  Dunbar,  minister  of  Air,  having  gone  to 
him,  to  exhort  him  to  call  on  his  God  for  mercy  for  his  by- 
gone wicked  and  evil  life,  and  that  God  would  of  his  infinite 
mercy  loose  him  out  of  the  bonds  of  the  Devil,  whom  he 
had  served  these  many  years  bygone,  he  acquiesced  in  their 
prayer  and  godly  exhortation,  and  uttered  these  words  :  '  I 
am  so  straitly  guarded,  that  it  lies  not  in  my  power  to  get  rny 
hand  to  take  off  my  bonnet,  nor  to  get  bread  to  my  mouth.' 
And  immediately  after  the  departing  of  the  two  ministers 
from  him,  the  juggler  being  sent  for  at  the  desire  of  my  Lord 
of  Kglintoune,  to  be  confronted  with  a  woman  of  the  burgh 
of  Air,  called  Janet  Bous,  who  was  apprehended  by  the 
rates  of  the  burgh  of  Air  for  witchcraft,  and  sent  to 
the  burgh  of  Irvine  purposely  for  that  affair,  he  was  found 
by  the  burgh  officers  who  went  about  him,  strangled  and 
hanged  by  the  cruik  of  the  door,  with  a  tail  of  hemp,  or 


32  ,:>iR  WALTER  SCOfT. 

a  string  made  of  hemp,  supposed  to  have  been  his  garter 
or  string  of  his  bonnet,  not  above  the  length  of  two  span 
long,  his  knees  not  being  from  the  ground  half  a  span, 
and  was  brought  out  of  the  house,  his  life  not  being  totally 
expelled.  But,  notwithstanding  of  whatsoever  means  used 
in  the  contrary  for  remeid  of  his  life,  he  revived  not,  but 
so  ended  his  life  miserably,  by  the  help  of  the  Devil  his 
master. 

"  And  because  there  was  then  only  in  life  the  said  ulaaga- 
ret  Barclay,  and  that  the  persons  summoned  to  pass  upon  her 
assize,  and  upon  the  assize  of  the  juggler,  who,  by  the  help 
of  the  Devil  his  master,  had  put  violent  hands  on  himself, 
were  all  present  within  the  said  burgh ;  therefore,  and  for 
eschewing  of  the  like  in  the  person  of  the  said  Margaret, 
our  sovereign  lord's  justices  in  that  part,  particularly  above- 
named,  constituted  by  commission,  after  solemn  deliberation 
and  advice  of  the  said  noble  lord,  whose  concurrence  and 
advice  was  chiefly  required  and  taken  in  this  matter,  con- 
cluded with  all  possible  diligence  before  the  downsitting  of 
the  Justice  Court,  to  put  the  said  Margaret  in  torture ;  in 
respect  the  Devil,  by  God's  permission,  had  made  her  asso- 
ciates, who  were  the  lights  of  the  cause,  to  be  their  own 
burr  toes  (slayers).  They  used  the  torture  underwritten,  as 
being  most  safe  and  gentle  (as  the  said  noble  lord  assured 
the  said  justices),  by  putting  of  her  two  bare  legs  in  a  pair 
of  stocks,  and  thereafter  by  onlaying  of  certain  iron  gauds 
(bars),  severally,  one  by  one,  and  then  eiking  and  augment- 
ing the  weight  by  laying  on  more  gauds,  and  in  easing  of 
her  by  offtaking  of  the  iron  gauds  one  or  more,  as  occasion 
offered,  which  iron  gauds  were  but  little  short  gauds,  and 
broke  not  the  skin  of  her  legs,  &c. 

"  After  using  of  the  which  kind  of  gentle  torture,  the  said 
Margaret  began,  according  to  the  increase  of  the  pain,  to 
cry,  and  crave  for  God's  cause  to  take  off  her  sliins  the  fore- 
said  irons,  and  she  should  declare  truly  the  whole  matter 


A  TALE  OF  WITCHCRAFT.  33 

Which  being  removed,  she  began  at  her  former  denial :  and 
being  of  new  assayed  in  torture  as  of  befoir,  she  then  uttered 
these  words :  '  Take  off,  take  off,  and  before  God  I  shall 
show  you  the  whole  form  ! ' 

"  And  the  said  irons  being  of  new,  upon  her  faithful! 
promise,  removed,  she  then  desired  my  Lord  of  Eglintoune, 
the  said  four  justices,  and  the  said  Mr.  David  Dickson,  min- 
ister of  the  burgh,  Mr.  George  Dunbar,  minister  of  Ayr, 
and  Mr.  Mitchell  Wallace,  minister  of  Kilmarnock,  and  Mr. 
John  Cunninghame,  minister  of  Dairy,  and  Hugh  Kennedy, 
provost  of  Ayr,  to  come  by  themselves,  and  to  remove  all 
others,  and  she  should  declare  truly,  as  she  should  answer  to 
God,  the  whole  matter.  Whose  desire  hi  that  being  fulfilled, 
she  made  her  confession  in  this  manner,  but  (i.  e.  without) 
any  kind  of  demand,  freely,  without  interrogation ;  God's 
name  by  earnest  prayer  being  called  upon  for  opening  of 
her  lips,  and  easing  of  her  heart,  that  she,  by  rendering  of 
the  truth,  might  glorify  and  magnify  his  holy  name,  and  dis- 
appoint the  enemy  of  her  salvation."  —  Trial  of  Margaret 
Barclay,  $c.,  1618. 

Margaret  Barclay,  who  was  a  young  and  lively  person, 
had  hitherto  conducted  herself  like  a  passionate  and  high- 
tempered  woman  innocently  accused,  and  the  only  appear- 
ance of  conviction  obtained  against  her  was,  that  she  carried 
about  her  rowan-tree  and  colored  thread,  to  make,  as  she 
said,  her  cow  give  milk,  when  it  began  to  fail.  But  the 
gentle  torture  —  a  strange  junction  of  words  —  recommended 
as  an  anodyne  by  the  good  Lord  Eglinton,  —  the  placing, 
namely,  her  legs  in  the  stocks,  and  loading  her  bare  shins 
with  bars  of  iron,  overcame  her  resolution :  when,  at  her 
screams  and  declarations  that  she  was  willing  to  tell  all,  the 
weights  were  removed.  She  then  told  a  story  of  destroying 
the  ship  of  John  Dein,  affirming  that  it  was  with  the  pur- 
pose of  killing  only  her  brother-in-law  and  Provost  Tran, 
and  saving  the  rest  of  the  crew.  She  at  the  same  time  in- 

3 


34  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 

volved  in  the  guilt  Isobel  Crawford.  This  poor  woman  was 
also  apprehended,  and,  in  great  terror,  confessed  the  imputed 
crime,  retorting  the  principal  blame  on  Margaret  Barclay 
herself.  The  trial  was  then  appointed  to  proceed,  when 
Alexander  Dean,  the  husband  of  Margaret  Barclay,  ap- 
peared in  court  with  a  lawyer  to  act  in  liis  wife's  behalf. 
Apparently,  the  sight  of  her  husband  awakened  some  hope 
and  desire  of  life,  for  when  the  prisoner  was  asked  by  the 
lawyer  whether  she  wished  to  be  defended,  she  answered, 
'*  As  you  please.  But  all  I  have  confessed  was  in  agony  of 
torture ;  and,  before  God,  all  I  have  spoken  is  false  and 
untrue."  To  which  she  pathetically  added,  "  Ye  have  been 
too  long  in  .coming." 

The  jury,  unmoved  by  these  affecting  circumstances,  pro- 
ceeded upon  the  principle  that  the  confession  of  the  accused 
could  not  be  considered  as  made  under  the  influence  of  tor- 
ture, since  the  bars  were  not  actually  upon  her  limbs  at  the 
time  it  was  delivered,  although  they  were  placed  at  her 
elbow,  ready  to  be  again  laid  on  her  bare  shins,  if  she  was 
less  explicit  in  her  declaration  than  her  auditors  wished. 
On  this  nice  distinction,  they  in  one  voice  found  Margaret 
Barclay  guilty.  It  is  singular  that  she  should  have  again 
returned  to  her  confession  after  sentence,  and  died  affirming 
it ;  —  the  explanation  of  which,  however,  might  be,  either 
that  she  had  really  in  her  ignorance  and  folly  tampered 
with  some  idle  spells,  or  that  an  apparent  penitence  for  her 
offence,  however  imaginary,  was  the  only  mode  in  which  she 
could  obtain  any  share  of  public  sympathy  at  her  death,  or 
a  portion  of  the  prayers  of  the  clergy  and  congregation, 
which,  in  her  circumstances,  she  might  be  willing  to  pur- 
chase, even  by  confession  of  what  all  believed  respecting 
her.  It  is  remarkable,  that  she  earnestly  entreated  the 
magistrates  that  no  harm  should  be  done  to  Isobel  Craw- 
ford, the  woman  whom  she  had  herself  accused.  This  un- 
fortunate young  creature  was  strangled  at  the  stake,  and  her 


A  TALE   OF   WITCHCRAFT.  35 

body  burned  to  ashes,  having  died  with  many  expressions  of 
religion  and  penitence. 

It  was  one  fatal  consequence  of  these  cruel  persecutions, 
that  one  pile  was  usually  lighted  at  the  embers  of  another. 
Accordingly,  in  the  present  case,  three  victims  having  al- 
ready perished  by  this  accusation,  the  magistrates,  incensed 
at  the  nature  of  the  crime,  so  perilous  as  it  seemed  to  men 
of  a  maritime  life,  and  at  a  loss  of  several  friends  of  their 
own,  one  of  whom  had  been  their  principal  magistrate,  did 
not  forbear  to  insist  against  Isobel  Crawford,  inculpated  by 
Margaret  Barclay's  confession.  A  new  commission  was 
granted  for  her  trial,  and  after  the  assistant  minister  of  Ir- 
vine, Mr.»JDavid  Dickson,  had  made  earnest  prayers  to  God 
for  opening  her  obdurate  and  closed  heart,  she  was  subjected 
to  the  torture  of  iron  bars  laid  upon  her  bare  shins,  her  feet 
being  in  the  stocks,  as  in  the  case  of  Margaret  Barclay. 

She  endured  this  torture  with  incredible  firmness,  since 
she  did  "  admirably,  without  any  kind  of  din  or  exclamation, 
suffer  above  thirty  stone  of  iron  to  be  laid  on  her  legs,  never 
shrinking  thereat  in  any  sort,  but  remaining,  as  it  were, 
steady."  But  in  shifting  the  situation  of  the  iron  bars,  and 
removing  them  to  another  part  of  her  shins,  her  constanc-y 
gave  way;  she  broke  out  into  horrible  cries  (though  nol 
more  than  three  bars  were  then  actually  on  her  person) 
of  "Tak  aff!  tak  aff!"  On  being  relieved  from  the  tor- 
ture,  she  made  the  usual  confession  of  all  that  she  was 
charged  with,  and  of  a  connection  with  the  Devil  which  had 
subsisted  for  several  years.  Sentence  was  given  against  her 
accordingly.  After  this  had  been  denounced,  she  openly 
denied  all  her  former  confessions,  and  died  without  any 
sign  of  repentance,  offering  repeated  interruptions  to  the 
minister  in  his  prayer,  and  absolutely  refusing  to  pardon  the 
executioner. 

This  tragedy  happened  in  the  year  1613,  and  recorded  as 
it  is  very  particularly,  and  at  considerable  length,  forms  the 


36  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 

most  detailed  specimen  I  have  met  with,  Df  a  Scottish  trial 
for  witchcraft,  —  illustrating,  in  particular,  how  poor  wretches 
abandoned,  as  they  conceived,  by  God  and  the  world,  de- 
prived of  all  human  sympathy,  and  exposed  to  personal  tor- 
tures of  an  acute  description,  became  disposed  to  throw  away 
the  lives  that  were  rendered  bitter  to  them,  by  a  voluntary 
confession  of  guilt,  rather  than  struggle  hopelessly  against 
go  many  evils.  Four  persons  here  lost  their  lives,  merely 
because  the  throwing  sorae  clay  models  into  the  sea,  a  fact 
told  differently  by  tho  «vitnesses  who  spoke  of  it,  corresponded 
with  the  season,  for  no  day  was  fixed,  in  which  a  particular 
vessel  was  lost.  It  is  scarce  possible  that,  after  reading  such 
a  story,  a  man  of  sense  can  listen  for  an  instant  to  the  evi- 
dence founded  on  confessions  thus  obtained,  which  has  been 
almost  the  sole  reason  by  which  a  few  individuals,  even  in 
modern  times,  have  endeavored  to  justify  a  belief  in  the 
existence  of  witchcraft. 

The  result  of  the  judicial  examination  of  a  criminal,  when 
extorted  by  such  means,  is  the  most  suspicious  of  all  evidence, 
and  even  when  voluntarily  given,  is  scarce  admissible,  with- 
out the  corroboration  of  other  testimony. 


ONE   WORD   MORE. 


TO   E.   B.   B. 


BY  ROBERT  BROWNING. 


fTlHERE  they  are,  my  fifty  men  and  women 

•     Naming  me  the  fifty  poems  finished  I 
Take  them,  Love,  the  book  *  and  me  together. 
Where  the  heart  lies,  let  the  brain  lie  also. 

n. 

Rafael  made  a  century  of  sonnets, 

Made  and  wrote  them  in  a  certain  volume 

Dinted  with  the  silver-pointed  pencil 

Else  he  only  used  to  draw  Madonnas : 

These,  the  world  might  view,  —  but  One,  the  volume. 

Who  that  one,  you  ask  ?     Your  heart  instructs  you. 

Did  she  live  and  love  it  all  her  lifetime  ? 

Did  she  drop,  his  lady  of  the  sonnets, 

Die,  and  let  it  drop  beside  her  pillow 

Where  it  lay  in  place  of  Rafael's  glory, 

Rafael's  cheek  so  duteous  and  so  loving,  — 

Cheek,  the  world  was  wont  to  hail  a  painter's, 

Rafael's  cheek,  her  love  had  turned  a  poet's  ? 

*  Referring  to  his  volume  of  Poems  entitled  "  Men  and  Women." 


38  ROBERT   BROWNING. 

III. 

You  and  I  would  rather  read  that  volume, 
(Taken  to  his  beating  bosom  by  it,) 
Lean  and  list  the  bosom-beats  of  Rafael, 
Would  we  not  ?  than  wonder  at  Madonnas  — 
.  Her,  San  Sisto  names,  and  Her,  Foligno, 
Her,  that  visits  Florence  in  a  vision, 
Her,  that 's  left  with  lilies  in  the  Louvre  — 
Seen  by  us  and  all  the  world  in  circle. 

IV. 

You  and  I  will  never  read  that  volume. 

Guido  Reni,  like  his  own  eye's  apple 

Guarded  long  the  treasure-book  and  loved  it. 

Guido  Reni  dying,  all  Bologna 

Cried,  and  the  world  with  it,  " Ours  —  the  treasure!1 

Suddenly,  as  rare  things  will,  it  vanished. 

v. 

Dante  once  prepared  to  paint  an  angel : 
Whom  to  please  ?     You  whisper,  "  Beatrice." 
While  he  mused  and  traced  it  and  retraced  it, 
(Perad venture  with  a  pen  corroded 
Still  by  drops  of  that  hot  ink  he  dipped  for, 
When,  his  left-hand  i'  the  hair  o'  the  wicked, 
Back  he  held  the  brow  and  pricked  its  stigma, 
Bit  into  the  live  man's  flesh  for  parchment, 
Loosed  Mm,  laughed  to  see  the  writing  rankle, 
Let  the  wretch  go  festering  through  Florence,)  — 
Dante,  who  loved  well  because  he  hated, 
Hated  wickedness  that  hinders  loving, 
Dante  standing,  studying  his  angel,  — 
In  there  broke  the  folk  of  his  Inferno. 
Says  he,  "  Certain  people  of  importance  " 


ONE  WORD  MORE.  39 

(Such  he  gave  his  daily,  dreadful  line  to) 
Entered  and  would  seize,  forsooth,  the  poet. 
Says  the  poet,  "  Then  I  stopped  my  painting." 

VI. 

You  and  I  would  rather  see  that  angel, 
Painted  by  the  tenderness  of  Dante, 
Would  we  not  ?  —  than  read  a  fresh  Inferno. 

vn. 

You  and  I  will  never  see  that  picture. 
Whilq  he  mused  on  love  and  Beatrice, 
While  he  softened  o'er  his  outlined  angel, 
In  they  broke,  those  "  people  of  importance  "  : 
We  and  Bice  bear  the  loss  forever. 

vm. 
What  of  Rafael's  sonnets,  Dante's  picture  ? 

rx. 

This  :  no  artist  lives  and  loves  that  longs  not 

Once,  and  only  once,  and  for  One  only, 

(Ah,  the  prize  !)  to  find  his  love  a  language 

Fit  and  fair  and  simple  and  sufficient  — 

.Using  nature  that 's  an  art  to  others, 

Not,  this  one  time,  art  that 's  turned  his  nature. 

Ay,  of  all  the  artists  living,  loving, 

None  but  would  forego  his  proper  dowry, — 

Does  he  paint  ?  he  fain  would  write  a  poem,  — 

Does  he  write  ?  he  fain  would  paint  a  picture. 

Put  to  proof  art  alien  to  the  artist's, 

Once,  and  only  once,  and  for  One  only, 

So  to  be  the  man  and  leave  the  artist, 

Save  the  man's  joy,  miss  the  artist's  sorrow. 


40  ROBERT  BROWNING. 


Wherefore  ?     Heaven's  gift  takes  earth's  abatement ! 

He  who  smites  the  rock  and  spreads  the  water, 

Bidding  drink  and  live  a  crowd  beneath  him, 

Even  he,  the  minute  makes  immortal, 

Proves,  perchance,  his  mortal  in  the  minute, 

Desecrates,  belike,  the  deed  in  doing. 

While  he  smites,  how  can  he  but  remember, 

So  he  smote  before,  in  such  a  peril, 

When  they  stood  and  mocked,  "  Shall  smiting  help  us  ? ' 

When  they  drank  and  sneered,  "  A  stroke  is  easy ! " 

When  they  wiped  their  mouths  and  went  their  journey, 

Throwing  him  for  thanks,  "  But  drought  was  pleasant." 

Thus  old  memories  mar  the  actual  triumph ; 

Thus  the  doing  savors  of  disrelish ; 

Thus  achievement  lacks  a  gracious  somewhat ; 

O'er-importuned  brows  becloud  the  mandate, 

Carelessness  or  consciousness,  the  gesture. 

For  he  bears  an  ancient  wrong  about  him, 

Sees  and  knows  again  those  phalanxed  faces, 

Hears,  yet  one  time  more,  the  'customed  prelude,  — 

"  How  should'st  thou,  of  all  men,  smite,  and  save  us  ?  " 

Guesses  what  is  like  to  prove  the  sequel,  — 

"  Egypt;'8  flesh-pots,  —  nay,  the  drought  was  better." 

XI. 

O,  the  crowd  must  have  emphatic  warrant ! 
Theirs,  the  Sinai-forehead's  cloven  brilliance, 
Right-arm's  rod-sweep,  tongue's  imperial  fiat 
Never  dares  the  man  put  off  the  prophet 

XII. 

Did  he  love  one  face  from  out  the  thousands, 
(Were  she  Jethro's  daughter,  white  and  wifely. 


ONE  WORD  MORE.  41 

Were  she  but  the  ^Ethiopian  bondslave,) 
He  would  envy  yon  dumb,  patient  camel, 
Keeping  a  reserve  of  scanty  water 
Meant  to  save  his  own  life  in  the  desert ; 
Ready  in  the  desert  to  deliver 
(Kneeling  down  to  let  his  breast  be  opened) 
Hoard  and  life  together  for  his  mistress. 

xm. 

I  shall  never,  in  the  years  remaining, 

Paint  you  pictures,  no,  nor  carve  you  statues, 

Make  you  music  that  should  all-express  me  ; 

So  it  seems  :  I  stand  on  my  attainment. 

This  of  verse  alone,  one  life  allows  me ; 

Verse  and  nothing  else  have  I  to  give  you. 

Other  heights  in  other  lives,  God  willing,  — 

All  the  gifts  from  all  the  heights,  your  own,  Love ! 

XIV. 

Yet  a  semblance  of  resource  avails  us,  — 

Shade  so  finely  touched,  love's  sense  must  seize  it. 

Take  these  lines,  look  lovingly  and  nearly, 

Lines  I  write  the  first  time  and  the  last  time. 

He  who  works  in  fresco,  steals  a  hair-brush, 

Curbs  the  liberal  hand,  subservient  proudly, 

Cramps  his  spirit,  crowds  its  all  in  little, 

Makes  a  strange  art  of  an  art  familiar, 

Fills  his  lady's  missal-marge  with  flowerets. 

He  who  blows  through  bronze,  may  breathe  through  silver, 

Fitly  serenade  a  slumbrous  princess. 

He  who  writes,  may  write  for  once,  as  I  do. 

xv. 

Love,  you  saw  me  gather  men  and  women, 
Live  or  dead  or  fashioned  by  my  fancy, 


42  EGBERT   BROKING. 

Enter  each  and  all,  and  use  their  service, 

Speak  from  every  mouth,  —  the  speech,  a  poem. 

Hardly  shall  I  tell  my  joys  and  sorrows, 

Hopes  and  fears,  belief  and  disbelieving : 

I  am  mine  and  yours,  —  the  rest  be  all  men's, 

Karshook,  Cleon,  Norbert  and  the  fifty. 

Let  me  speak  this  once  in  my  true  person, 

Not  as  Lippo,  Roland,  or  Andrea, 

Though  the  fruit  of  speech  be  just  this  sentence,  — 

Pray  you,  look  on  these  my  men  and  women, 

Take  and  keep  my  fifty  poems  finished ; 

Where  my  heart  lies,  let  my  brain  lie  also ! 

Poor  the  speech  ;  be  how  I  speak,  for  all  things. 

XVI. 

Not  but  that  you  know  me !     Lo,  the  moon's  self! 
Here  in  London,  yonder  late  in  Florence, 
Still  we  find  her  face,  the  thrice-transfigured. 
Curving  on  a  sky  imbrued  with  color, 
Drifted  over  Fiesole  by  twilight, 
Came  she,  our  new  crescent  of  a  hair's-breadth. 
Full  she  flared  it,  lamping  Samminiato, 
Rounder  'twixt  the  cypresses  and  rounder, 
Perfect  till  the  nightingales  applauded. 
Now,  a  piece  of  her  old  self,  impoverished, 
Hard  to  greet,  she  traverses  the  house-roofs, 
Hurries  with  unhandsome  thrift  of  silver, 
Goes  dispiritedly,  —  glad  to  finish. 

XVII. 

What,  there 's  nothing  in  the  moon  noteworthy  ? 
Nay,  —  for  if  that  moon  could  love  a  mortal, 
Use,  to  charm  him,  (so  to  fit  a  fancy,) 
All  her  magic,  ('t  is  the  old  sweet  mythos,) 
She  would  turn  a  new  side  to  her  mortal, 


ONE  WORD  MORE.  4i 

Side  unseen  of  herdsman,  huntsman,  steersman,  — 

Blank  to  Zoroaster  on  his  terrace, 

Blind  to  Galileo  on  his  turret, 

Dumb  to  Homer,  dumb  to  Keats,  —  him,  even  ! 

Think,  the  wonder  of  the  moonstruck  mortal,  — 

"When  she  turns  round,  comes  again  in  heaven, 

Opens  out  anew  for  worse  or  better  ? 

Proves  she  like  some  portent  of  an  iceberg 

Swimming  full  upon  the  ship  it  founders, 

Hungry  with  huge  teeth  of  splintered  crystals  ? 

Proves  she  as  the  paved-work  of  a  sapphire 

Seen  by  Moses  when  he  climbed  the  mountain  ? 

Moses,  Aaron,  Nadab,  and  Abihu 

Climbed  and  saw  the  very  God,  the  Highest, 

Stand  upon  the  paved-work  of  a  sapphire. 

Like  the  bodied  heaven  in  his  clearness 

Shone  the  stone,  the  sapphire  of  that  paved-work, 

"When  they  ate  and  drank  and  saw  God  also ! 

XVIII. 

What  were  seen  ?     None  knows,  none  ever  shall  know. 

Only  this  is  sure,  —  the  sight  were  other, 

Not  the  moon's  same  side,  born  late  in  Florence, 

Dying  now  impoverished  here  in  London. 

God  be  thanked,  the  meanest  of  his  creatures 

Boasts  two  soul-sides,  one  to  face  the  world  with, 

One  to  show  a  woman  when  he  loves  her. 

XIX. 

This  I  say  of  me,  but  think  of  you,  Love ! 

This  to  you,  —  yourself  my  moon  of  poets ! 

Ah,  but  that 's  the  world's  side,  —  there 's  the  wonder  — 

Thus  they  see  you,  praise  you,  think  they  know  you. 

There,  in  turn  I  stand  with  them  and  praise  you. 


44  ROBERT   BROWNING. 

Out  of  my  own  self,  I  dare  to  phrase  it 
But  the  best  is  when  I  glide  from  out  them, 
Cross  a  step  or  two  of  dubious  twilight, 
Come  out  on  the  other  side,  the  novel 
Silent  silver  lights,  and  darks  undreamed  of, 
Where  I  hush  and  bless  myself  with  silence. 

xx. 

O,  their  Rafael  of  the  dear  Madonnas, 
0,  their  Dante  of  the  dread  Inferno, 
Wrote  one  song  —  and  in  my  brain  I  sing  it, 
Drew  one  angel  —  borne,  see,  on  my  bosom ! 


IN   A   SKYE   BOTHY. 


BY  ALEXANDER  SMITH. 


MAN  is  an  ease-loving  animal,  with  a  lingering  affec- 
tion 'Cor  Arcadian  dales ;  under  the  shadow  of  whose 
trees  shepherd  boys  are  piping  "  as  they  would  never  grow 
old."  Human  nature  is  a  vagabond  still,  maugre  the  six 
thousand  years  of  it,  and  amuses  itself  with  dreams  of  soci- 
eties free  and  unrestrained.  It  is  this  vagabond  feeling 
in  the  blood  which  draws  one  so  strongly  to  Shakespeare. 
That  sweet  and  liberal  nature  of  his  blossomed  into  all 
wild  human  generosities.  "As  You  Like  It"  is  a  vaga- 
bond play ;  and,  verily,  if  there  waved  in  any  wind  that 
blows  upon  the  earth  a  forest,  peopled  as  Aj-den's  was  in 
Shakespeare's  imagination,  with  an  exiled  king  drawing 
the  sweetest,  humanest  lessons  from  misfortune,  a  melan- 
choly Jaques  stretched  by  the  river's  brink,  moralizing  on 
the  bleeding  deer,  a  fair  Rosalind  chanting  her  saucy 
cuckoo  song,  fools  like  Touchstone  (not  like  those  of  our 
acquaintance,  reader),  and  the  whole  place  from  centre  to 
circumference  filled  with  mighty  oak-bolls,  all  carven  with 
lovers'  names  ;  I  would,  be  my  worldly  prospects  what  they 
may,  pack  up  at  once  and  join  that  vagabond  company.  For 
there  I  should  find  more  gallant  courtesies,  finer  sentiments, 
completer  innocence  and  happiness,  than  I  am  like  to  dis- 
cover here,  although  I  search  for  them  from  shepherd's  cot 
to  king's  palace.  Just  to  think  how  these  people  lived 


46  ALEXANDER  SMITH. 

Carelessly  as  the  blossoming  trees,  happily  as  the  singing 
birds ;  time  measured  only  by  the  acorn's  patter  on  the 
fruitful  soil.  A  world  without  debtor  or  creditor ;  passing 
rich,  yet  with  never  a  doit  in  its  purse ;  with  no  sordid 
cares,  no  regard  for  appearances ;  nothing  to  occupy  the 
young  but  love-making;  nothing  to  occupy  the  old  but 
listening  to  the  "  sermons  in  stones,"  and  perusing  the 
musical  wisdom  which  dwells  in  "  running  brooks."  Ar- 
den  forest,  alas !  is  not  rooted  in  the  earth :  it  draws 
sustenance  from  a  poet's  brain ;  and  the  light  asleep  on 
its  leafy  billows  is  that  "  that  yet  never  was  seen  on  sea  or 
shore."  But  one  cannot  help  dreaming  of  such  a  place,  and 
striving  to  approach  as  nearly  as  possible  to  its  sweet 
conditions. 

I  am  quite  alone  here :  England  may  have  been  invaded 
and  London  sacked  for  aught  I  know.  Several  weeks 
since,  a  newspaper,  accidentally  blown  to  my  solitude,  in- 
formed me  that  the  Great  Eastern  had  been  got  under 
weigh,  and  was  then  swinging  at  the  Nore.  There  is  great 
joy,  I  perceive.  Human  nature  stands  astonished  at  itself; 
felicitates  itself  on  its  remarkable  talent,  and  will  for 
months  to  come  purr  complacently  over  its  achievement  in 
magazines  and  reviews.  A  fine  world,  messieurs,  that  will 
attain  to  heaven  —  if  in  the  power  of  steam.  A  very  line 
world ;  yet  for  ah1  that,  I  have  withdrawn  from  it  for  a 
time,  and  would  rather  not  hear  of  its  remarkable  exploits. 
In  my  present  mood  I  do  not  value  them  that  coil  of  vapor 
on  the  brow  of  Blavin,  which,  as  I  gaze,  smoulders  into 
nothing  in  the  fire  of  sunrise. 

Goethe,  in  his  memorable  book,  '*  Truth  and  Poetry," 
informs  his  readers  that  in  his  youtli  he  loved  to  shelter 
himself  in  the  Scripture  narratives,  from  the  marching  and 
counter-marching  of  armies,  the  cannonading,  retreating, 
and  fighting,  that  lay  everywhere  around  him.  He  shut 
his  eyes,  as  it  were,  and  a  whole  war-convulsed  Europe 


IN  A   SKYE   BOTHY.  47 

wheeled  away  into  silence  and  distance,  and  in  its  place, 
lo !  the  patriarchs,  with  their  tawny  tents,  their  man-ser- 
vants and  maid-servants,  and  countless  flocks  in  impercep- 
tible procession  whitening  the  Syrian  plains.  In  this  my 
green  solitude,  I  appreciate  the  full  sweetness  of  the  pas- 
sage. Everything  here  is  silent  as  the  Bible  plains  them- 
selves. I  am  cut  off  from  former  scenes  and  associates  as 
by  the  sullen  Styx  and  the  grim  ferrying  of  Charon's  boat. 
The  noise  of  the  world  does  not  touch  me.  I  live  too  far 
inland  to  hear  the  thunder  of  the  reef.  To  this  place  no , 
postman  comes,  no  tax-gatherer.  This  region  never  heard 
the  sound  of  the  church-going  bell.  The  land  is  pagan  as 
when  the  yellow-haired  Norseman  landed  a  thousand  years 
ago.  I  almost  feel  a  pagan  myself.  Not  using  a  notched 
stick,  I  have  lost  all  count  of  time,  and  don't  know  Satur- 
day from  Sunday.  Civilization  is  like  a  soldier's  stock;  it 
makes  you  carry  your  head  a  good  deal  higher,  makes  the 
angels  weep  a  little  more  at  your  fantastic  tricks,  and  half 
suffocates  you  the  while.  I  have  thrown  it  away,  and 
breathe  freely.  My  bed  is  the  heather,  my  mirror  the 
stream  from  the  hills,  my  comb  and  brush  the  sea-breeze, 
my  watch  the  sun,  my  theatre  the  sunset,  and  my  evening  ser- 
vice —  not  without  a  rude  natural  religion  in  it  —  watching 
the  pinnacles  of  the  hills  of  Cuchullin  sharpening  in  intense 
purple  against  the  pallid  orange  of  the  sky,  or  listening  to 
the  melancholy  voices  of  the  sea-birds  and  the  tide  ;  that 
over,  I  am  asleep  till  touched  by  the  earliest  splendor  of 
the  dawn.  I  am,  not  without  reason,  hugely  enamored  of 
my  vagabond  existence. 

My  bothy  is  situated  on  the  shores  of  one  of  the  lochs 
that  intersect  Skye.  The  coast  Ls  bare  and  rocky,  hollowed 
into  fantastic  chambers :  and  when  the  tide  is  making,  every 
cavern  murmurs  like  a  sea-shell.  The  land,  from  frequent 
rain  green  as  emerald,  rises  into  soft  pastoral  heights,  and 
about  a  mile  inland  soars  suddenly  up  into  peaks*  of  baa- 


48  ALEXANDER   SMITH. 

tard  marble,  white  as  the  cloud  under  which  the  lark  sings 
at  noon,  bathed  in  rosy  light  at  sunset.  In  front  are  the 
Cuchullin  hills  and  the  monstrous  peak  of  Blavin  ;  then 
the  green  Strath  runs  narrowing  out  to  sea,  and  the  Island 
of  Rum,  with  a  white  cloud  upon  it,  stretches  like  a  gigan- 
tic shadow  across  the  entrance  of  the  loch,  and  completes 
the  scene.  Twice  every  twenty-four  hours  the  Atlantic  tide 
sets  in  upon  hollowed  shores ;  twice  is  the  sea  withdi  awn, 
leaving  spaces  of  green  sand  on  which  mermaids  with 
.golden  combs  might  sleek  alluring  tresses  ;  and  black  rocks, 
heaped  with  brown  dulse  and  tangle,  and  lovely  ocean 
blooms  of  purple  and  orange ;  and  bare  islets,  —  marked 
at  full  of  tide  by  a  glimmer  of  pale-green  amid  the  univer- 
sal sparkle,  —  where  most  the  sea-fowl  love  to  congregate. 
To  these  islets,  on  favorable  evenings,  come  the  crows,  and 
sit  in  sable  parliament ;  business  despatched,  they  start  into 
air  as  at  a  gun,  and  stream  away  through  the  sunset  to 
their  roosting-place  in  the  Armadale  woods.  The  shore 
supplies  for  me  the  place  of  books  and  companions.  Of 
course  Blavin  and  Cuchullin  hills  are  the  chief  attractions, 
and  I  never  weary  watching  them.  In  the  morning  they 
wear  a  great  white  caftan  of  mist ;  but  that  lifts  away  before 
noon,  and  they  stand  with  all  their  scars  and  passionate 
torrent-lines  bare  to  the  blue  heavens ;  with  perhaps  a  soli- 
tary shoulder  for  a  moment  gleaming  wet  to  the  sunlight. 
After  a  while  a  vapor  begins  to  steam  up  from  their  abysses, 
gathering  itself  into  strange  shapes,  knotting  and  twisting 
itself  like  smoke ;  while  above,  the  terrible  crests  are  now 
lost,  now  revealed,  in  a  stream  of  flying  rack.  In  an  hour 
a  wall  of  rain,  gray  as  granite,  opaque  as  iron,  stands^  up 
from  the  sea  to  heaven.  The  loch  is  roughening  before 
the  wind,  and  the  islets,  black  dots  a  second  ago,  are 
patches  of  roaring  foam.  You  hear  the  fierce  sound  of 
its  coming.  The  lashing  tempest  sweeps  over  you,  and 
looking  behind,  up  the  long  inland  glen,  you  can  see  on 


IN  A  SKYE  BOTHY.  49 

the  birch  woods,  and  on  the  sides  of  the  hills,  driven  on  the 
wind,  the  white  smoke  of  the  rain.  Though  fierce  as  a 
charge  of  Highland  bayonets,  these  squalls  are  seldom  of 
long  duration,  and  you  bless  them  when  you  creep  from 
your  shelter,  for  out  comes  the  sun,  and  the  birch  woods 
are  twinkling,  and  more  intensely  flash  the  levels  of  the 
sea,  and  at  a  stroke  the  clouds  are  scattered  from  the  wet 
brow  of  Blavin,  and  to  the  whole  a  new  element  is  added, 
the  voice  of  the  swollen  stream  as  it  rushes  over  a  hun- 
dred tiny  cataracts,  and  roars  river-broad  into  the  sea,  mak- 
ing turbid  the  azure.  Then  I  have  my  amusements  in 
this  solitary  place.  The  mountains  are  of  course  open,  and 
this  morning  at  dawn  a  roe  swept  past  me  like  the  wind, 
nose  to  the  dewy  ground,  "  tracking,"  they  call  it  here. 
Above  all,  I  can  wander  on  the  ebbed  beach.  Hogg 
speaks  of  that 

"  Undefined  and  mingled  hum, 
Voice  of  the  desert,  never  dumb." 

But  far  more  than  the  murmuring  and  insecty  air  of  the 
moorland,  does  the  wet  chirk-chirking  of  the  living  shore 
give  one  the  idea  of  crowded  and  multitudinous  life.  Did 
the  reader  ever  hunt  razor-fish  ?  —  not  sport  like  tiger- 
hunting,  I  admit ;  yet  it  has  its  pleasures  and  excitements, 
and  can  kill  a  forenoon  for  an  idle  man  agreeably.  On  the 
wet  sands  yonder  the  razor-fish  are  spouting  like  the  foun- 
tains at  Versailles  on  a  fete  day.  The  sly  fellow  sinks  on 
discharging  his  watery  feu  de  joie.  If  you  are  quickly 
after  him  through  the  sand,  you  catch  him,  and  then  comes 
the  tug  of  war.  Address  and  dexterity  are  required.  If 
you  pull  vigorously,  he  slips  out  of  his  sheath  a  "  mother- 
naked  "  mollusk,  and  escapes.  If  you  do  your  spiriting 
gently,  you  drag  him  up  to  light,  a  long,  thin  case,  with  a 
white  fishy  bulb  protruding  at  one  end  like  a  root,  Rinse 
him  in  sea-water,  toss  him  into  your  basket,  and  plunge 

4 


50  ALEXANDER   SMITH. 

after  another  watery  flash.  These  razor-fish  are  excellent 
eating,  the  people  say ;  and  when  used  as  bait,  no  fish  that 
swims  the  ocean  stream,  cod,  whiting,  haddock,  flat  skate 
broad-shouldered,  crimson  bream,  —  not  the  detested  dog- 
fish himself,  this  summer  swarming  in  every  loch  and  be- 
cursed  by  every  fisherman,  —  can  keep  himself  off  the 
hook,  and  in  an  hour  your  boat  is  laden  with  glittering 
spoil.  Then  if  you  take  your  gun  to  the  low  islands, — 
and  you  can  go  dry-shod  at  ebb  of  tide,  —  you  have  your 
chance  of  sea-fowl.  Gulls  of  all  kinds  are  there,  dookers 
and  divers  of  every  description ;  flocks  of  shy  curlews, 
and  specimens  of  a  hundred  tribes,  to  which  my  limited 
ornithological  knowledge  cannot  furnish  a  name.  The 
Solan  goose  yonder  falls  from  heaven  into  the  water  like 
a  meteor-stone.  See  the  solitary  scart,  with  long,  narrow 
wing  and  outstretched  neck,  shooting  toward  some  distant 
promontory  !  Anon,  high  overhead,  come  wheeling  a 
covey  of  lovely  sea-swallows.  You  fire  ;  one  flutters  down 
never  more  to  skim  the  horizon  or  to  dip  in  the  sea 
sparkle.  Lift  it  up;  is  it  not  beautiful?  The  wild  keen 
eye  is  closed,  but  you  see  the  delicate  slate-color  of  the 
wings,  and  the  long  tail-feathers  white  as  the  creaming 
foam.  There  is  a  stain  of  blood  on  the  breast,  hardly 
brighter  than  the  scarlet  of  its  beak  and  feet.  Lay  it 
down,  for  its  companions  are  dashing  round  and  round, 
uttering  harsh  cries  of  rage  and  sorrow ;  and  had  you  the 
heart,  you  could  shoot  them  one  by  one.  At  ebb  of  tide 
wild-looking  children,  from  turf-cabins  on  the  hillside,  come 
down  to  hunt  shell-fish.  Even  now  a  troop  is  busy ;  how 
their  shrill  voices  go  the  while !  Old  Effie,  I  see,  is  out 
to-day,  quite  a  picturesque  object  with  her  white  cap  and 
red  shawl.  With  a  tin  can  in  'one  hand,  an  old  reaping- 
hook  in  the  other,  she  goes  poking  among  the  tangle.  Let 
us  see  what  sport  she  has  had.  She  turns  round  at  our 
salutation,  —  very  old,  old  almost  as  the  worn  rocks  around 


IX  A   SKYE   BOTHY.  51 

She  might  ha\  e  been  the  wife  of  Wordsworth's  "  Leech- 
gatherer."  Her  can  is  sprawling  with  brown  crabs  ;  and 
opening  her  apron,  she  exhibits  a  large  black  and  blue 
lobster,  —  a  fellow  such  as  she  alone  can  capture.  A  queer 
woman  is  Effie,  and  an  awsome.  She  is  familiar  with 
ghosts  and  apparitions.  She  can  relate  leg-ends  that  have 
power  over  the  superstitious  blood,  and  with  little  coaxing 
will  sing  those  wild  Gaelic  songs  of  hers,  —  of  dead  lights 
on  the  sea,  of  fishing-boats  going  down  in  squalls,  of  un- 
buried  bodies  tossing  day  and  night  upon  the  gray  peaks 
of  the  waves,  and  of  girls  that  pray  God  to  lay  them  by 
the  sides  of  their  drowned  lovers  ;  although  for  them  should 
never  risa  mass  nor  chant,  and  although  their  flesh  should 
be  torn  asunder  by  the  wild  fishes  of  the  sea. 

Rain  is  my  enemy  here,  and  at  this  writing  I  am  suffer- 
ing siege.  For  three  days  this  rickety  dwelling  has  stood 
assault  of  wind  and  rain.  Yesterday  a  blast  breached  the 
door,  and  the  tenement  fluttered  for  a  moment  like  an  um- 
brella caught  in  a  gust.  All  seemed  lost,  but  the  door  was 
got  to  again,  heavily  barred  across,  and  the  enemy  foiled. 
An  entrance,  however,  had  been  effected ;  and  that  por- 
tion of  the  attacking  column  which  I  had  imprisoned  by 
my  dexterous  manoeuvre,  maddening  itself  into  whirlwind, 
rushed  up  the  chimney,  scattering  my  turf  fire  as  it  went, 
and  so  escaped.  Since  that  time  the  windy  columns  have 
retired  to  the  gorges  of  the  hills,  where  I  hear  them  howl 
at  intervals ;  and  the  only  thing  I  am  exposed  to  is  the 
musketry  of  the  rain.  How  viciously  the  small  shot  pep- 
pers the  walls !  Here  must  I  wait  till  the  cloudy  arma- 
ment breaks  up.  One's  own  mind  is  a  dull  companion  in 
these  circumstances.  Sheridan,  —  wont  with  his  talk  to 
brighten  the  table  more  than  the  champagne ;  whose  mind 
was  a  phosphorescent  sea,  dark  in  its  rest,  every  movement 
a  flash  of  splendor,  —  if  cooped  up  here,  begirt  with  this 
murky  atmosphere,  would  be  dull  as  a  Lincoln  fen  uneu- 


52  ALEXANDER   SMITH. 

livened  by  a  single  will-o'-the-wisp.  Books  are  the  only 
refuge  on  a  rainy  day ;  but  in  Skye  Bothies  books  are  rare 
To  me,  however,  the  gods  have  proved  kind,  for  in  my  sore 
need  I  found  on  a  shelf  here  two  volumes  of  the  old 
Monthly  Review,  and  have  sauntered  through  these  dingy 
literary  catacombs  with  considerable  satisfaction.  What  a 
strange  set  of  old  fogies  the  writers  !  To  read  them  is  like 
conversing  with  the  antediluvians.  Their  opinions  have 
fallen  into  disuse  long  ago,  and  resemble  to-day  the  rusty 
armor  and  gimcracks  of  a  curiosity-shop.  These  essays 
and  criticisms  were  thought  brilliant,  I  suppose,  when  they 
appeared  last  century,  and  authors  praised  therein  con- 
sidered themselves  rather  handsome  flies,  preserved  in  pure 
critical  amber  for  the  inspection  of  posterity.  The  volumes 
were  published,  I  notice,  from  1790  to  1792,  and  exhibit  a 
period  of  wonderful  literary  activity.  Not  to  speak  of 
novels,  histories,  travels,  farces,  tragedies,  upwards  of  two 
hundred  poems  are  brought  to  judgment.  Plainly,  these 
Monthly  Reviewers  worked  hard,  and  on  the  whole  with 
spirit  and  deftness.  A  proper  sense  of  the  importance  of 
their  craft  had  these  gentlemen ;  they  laid  down  the  law 
with  great  gravity,  and  from  critical  benches  shook  their 
awful  wigs  on  offenders.  How  it  all  looks  now  !  "  Let  us 
indulge  ourselves  with  another  extract,"  quoth  one,  "  and 
contemplate  once  more  the  tear  of  grief  before  we  are 
called  upon  to  witness  the  tear  of  rapture."  Both  tears 
dried  up  long  ago,  as  those  that  sparkled  on  a  Pharaoh's 
cheek.  Hear  this  other,  stern  as  Rhadamanthus ;  behold 
Duty  steeling  itself  against  human  weakness  !  "  It  grieves 
us  to  wound  a  young  man's  feelings ;  but  our  judgment 
must  not  be  biassed  by  any  plea  whatsoever.  Why  will 
men  apply  for  our  opinion,  when  they  know  that  we  cannot 
be  silent,  and  that  we  will  not  lie  ?  "  Listen  to  this  prophet 
in  Israel,  one  who  has  not  bent  the  knee  to  Baal,  and  say 
if  there  is  not  a  touch  of  hopeless  pathos  in  him :  "  Fine 


IN   A   SKYE   BOTHY.  53 

woixls  do  not  make  fine  poems.  Scarcely  a  month  passes 
in  which  we  are  not  obliged  to  issue  this  decree.  But  in 
these  days  of  universal  heresy,  our  decrees  are  no  more 
respected  than  the  Bulls  of  the  Bishop  of  Rome."  O  that 
men  would  hoar,  that  they  would  incline  their  hearts  to 
wisdom  !  The  ghosts  of  the  dim  literary  Hades  are  get- 
ting tiresome,  and  as  I  look  up,  lo!  the  rain  has  ceased, 
from  sheer  fatigue  :  great  white  vapors  are  rising  from  the 
damp  valleys ;  and,  better  than  all,  pleasant  as  Blucher's 
cannon  on  the  evening  of  Waterloo,  the  sound  of  wheels 
on  the  boggy  ground ;  and  just  when  the  stanched  rain- 
clouds  are  burning  into  a  sullen  red  at  sunset,  I  have  a 
visitor  in  my  Bothy,  and  pleasant  human  intercourse. 

Broadford  Fair  is  a  great  event  in  the  island.  The  little 
town  lies  on  the  margin  of  a  curving  bay,  and  under  the 
shadow  of  a  somewhat  celebrated  hill.  On  the  crest  of  it 
is  a  cairn  of  stones,  the  burying-place  of  an  ancient  Scan- 
dinavian woman,  tradition  informs  me,  whose  wish  it  was 
to  be  laid  high  up  there,  that  she  might  sleep  right  in  the 
pathway  of  the  Norway  wind.  In  a  green  glen,  at  its  base, 
stand  the  ruins  of  the  House  of  Corrichatachin,  where  Bos- 
well  had  his  share  of  four  bowls  of  punch,  and  went  to  bed 
at  five  in  the  morning,  and,  awakening  at  noon  with  a  severe 
headache,  saw  Dr.  Johnson  burst  in  upon  him  with  tLe 
exclamation,  "  What,  drunk  yet!"  "His  tone  of  voice  w.'js 
not  that  of  severe  upbraiding,"  writes  the  penitent  Bozzy, 
"  so  I  was  relieved  a  little."  Broadford  is  a  post-town  of 
about  a  dozen  houses,  and  is  a  place  of  great  importance. 
If  Portree  is  the  London  of  Skye,  Broadford  is  its  Man- 
chester. The  markets,  held  every  three  months  or  so,  take 
place  on  a  patch  of  moorland  about  a  mile  from  the  village. 
Not  only  are  cattle  sold  and  cash  exchanged  for  the  same, 
but  there  a  Skye  farmer  meets  his  relations,  from  the  brother 
of  his  blood  to  his  cousin  forty  times  removed.  To  these 
meetings  he  is  irawn,  not  only  by  his  love  of  coin,  but  by 


54  ALEXANDER   SMITH. 

his  love  of  kindred,  and  —  the  Broadford  Mail  and  tiie 
Portree  Advertiser  lying  yet  in  the  womb  of  time  —  by  his 
love  of  gossip  also.  The  market  is  the  Skyeman's  ex- 
change, his  family  gathering,  and  his  newspaper.  From 
the  deep  sea  of  his  solitude  he  comes  up  to  breathe  there, 
and,  refreshed,  sinks  again.  This  fair  at  Broadford  I  re- 
solved to  see.  Starting  early  in  the  morning,  my  way  for 
the  most  part  lay  through  a  desolation  where  Nature  seemed 
deteriorated,  and  at  her  worst.  Winter  could  not  possibly 
sadden  the  region  ;  no  spring  could  quicken  it  into  ^owc:  s. 
The  hills  wear  but  for  ornament  the  white  streak  of  the 
torrent;  the  rocky  soil  clothes  itself  in  heather  to  which 
the  purple  never  comes.  Even  man,  the  miracle-worker, 
who  transforms  everything  he  touches,  who  has  rescued  a 
fertile  Holland  from  the  waves,  who  has  reared  a  marble 
Venice  from  out  salt  lagunes  and  marshes,  is  defeated  here. 
A  turf  hut,  with  smoke  issuing  from  the  roof,  and  a  patch 
of  sickly  green  around,  which  will  ripen  by  November,  is 
all  that  he  has  won  from  Nature.  Gradually,  as  I  pro- 
ceeded, the  aspect  of  the  country  changed,  began  to  ex- 
hibit traces  of  cultivation  ;  and  erelong  the  red  hill  with 
the  Norwegian  woman's  cairn  a-top  rose  before  me,  sug- 
gesting Broadford  and  the  close  of  the  journey.  The  roads 
were  filled  with  cattle,  driven  forward  with  oath  and  shout. 
Every  now  and  then,  a  dog-cart  came  skirring  along,  and 
infinite  the  confusion,  and  loud  the  clamor  of  tongues,  when 
one  or  other  plunged  into  a  herd  of  sheep,  or  skittish 
"  three-year-olds."  At  the  entrance  to  the  fair,  the  horses 
were  taken  out  of  the  vehicles,  and  left,  with  a  leathern 
thong  tied  round  tneir  forelegs,  to  limp  about  in  search  of 
breakfast.  As  you  advance,  on  either  side  of  the  road 
stand  hordes  of  cattle,  the  wildest  looking'  creatures,  black, 
white,  dun,  and  cream-colored,  with  fells  of  hair  hanging 
over  their  savage  eyes,  and  graced  with  horns  of  prepos- 
terous dimensions.  Horses  neighed  from  their  stakes,  the 


IN  A  SKYE  BOTHY.  55 

owners  looking  out  for  customers.  Sheep  were  there,  too, 
in  restless  masses,  scattering  hither  and  thither  like  quick- 
silver, with  dogs  and  men  flying  along  their  edges,  excited 
to  the  verge  of  insanity.  What  a  hubbub  of  sound !  "What 
lowing  and  neighing !  what  bleating  and  barking !  It  was 
a  novel  sight,  that  rude,  primeval  traffic.  Down  in  the 
hollow  ground  tents  had  been  knocked  up  since  dawn  ; 
there  potatoes  were  being  cooked  for  drovers  who  had  been 
travelling  all  night;  there,  also,  liquor  could  be  had.  To 
these  places,  I  observed,  contracting  parties  invariably  re- 
paired to  solemnize  a  bargain.  Booths  ranged  along  the 
side  of  the  road  were  plentifully  furnished  with  confections, 
ribbons,  'and  cheap  jewellery ;  and  as  the  morning  wore  on, 
around  these  the  girls  swarmed  thickly,  as  bees  round  sum- 
mer flowers.  The  fair  was  running  its  full  career  of  bar- 
gain-making and  consequent  dram-drinking,  rude  flirtation, 
and  meeting  of  friend  with  friend,  when  up  the  middle  of 
the  road,  hustling  the  passengers,  terrifying  the  cattle,  came 
three  misguided  young  gentlemen  —  medical  students,  I 
opined  —  engaged  in  botanical  researches  in  these  regions. 
Evidently  they  had  been  "dwellers  in  tents."  One  of 
them,  gifted  with  a  comic  genius,  —  his  companions  were 
desperately  solemn,  —  at  one  point  of  the  road,  threw  back 
his  coat,  in  emulation  of  Sambo  when  he  brings  down  the 
applauses  of  the  threepenny  gallery,  and  executed  a  shuffle 
in  front  of  a  bewildered  cow.  Crummie  backed  and  shied, 
bent  on  retreat.  He,  agile  as  a  cork,  bobbed  up  and  down 
in  her  front,  turn  whither  she  would,  with  shouts  and  hideous 
grimaces,  his  companions  standing  by  the  while  like  mutes 
at  a  funeral.  That  feat  accomplished,  the  trio  staggered 
on,  amid  the  derision  and  scornful  laughter  of  the  Gael. 
Lifting  our  eyes  up  out  of  the  noise  and  confusion,  there 
were  the  solitary  mountain-tops  and  the  clear  mirror  of 
Broadford  Bay,  the  opposite  coast  sleeping  green  in  it  with 
all  its  woods ;  and  lo !  the  steamer  from  the  South  sliding 


56  ALEXANDER   SMITH. 

in,  with  her  red  funnel,  breaking  the  reflection  with  a  tract 
of  foam,  and  disturbing  the  far-off  morning  silence  with  the 
thunder  of  her  paddles.  By  noon,  a  considerable  stroke  of 
business  had  been  done.  Hordes  of  bellowing  cattle  were 
being  driven  off  toward  Broadford,  and  drovers  were  rush- 
ing about  in  a  wonderful  manner,  armed  with  tar-pot  and 
stick,  smearing  their  peculiar  mark  upon  the  shaggy  hides 
of  their  purchases.  Rough-looking  customers  enough,  these 
fellows,  yet  they  want  not  means.  Some  of  them,  I  am 
told,  came  here  this  morning  with  five  hundred  pounds  in 
their  pockot-books,  and  have  spent  every  paper  of  it,  and 
this  day  three  months  they  will  return  with  as  large  a  sum. 
By  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  the  place  was  deserted 
by  cattle,  and  fun  and  business  gathered  round  the  booths 
and  refreshment  tents,  the  noise  increasing  every  hour,  and 
towards  evening  deepening  into  brawl  and  general  combat. 
During  the  last  few  weeks  I  have  had  opportunity  of  wit- 
nessing something  of  life  as  it  passes  in  the  Skye  wilder- 
nesses, and  have  been  struck  with  its  self-containedness,  not 
less  than  with  its  remoteness.  A  Skye  family  luus  every- 
thing within  itself.  The  bare  mountains  yield  them  mutton, 
of  a  flavor  and  delicacy  unknown  in  the  south.  The  copses 
swarm  with  rabbits ;  and  if  a  net  is  set  over  night  at  the 
Black  Island,  there  is  abundance  of  fish  to  breakfast.  The 
farmer  grows  his  own  corn,  barley,  and  potatoes,  digs  his 
own  peats,  makes  his  own  candles ;  he  tans  leather,  spins 
cloth  shaggy  as  a  terrier's  pile,  and  a  hunchback  artist  on 
the  place  transforms  the  raw  materials  into  boots  or  shep- 
herd garments.  Twice  every  year  a  huge  hamper  arrives 
from  Glasgow,  stuffed  with  all  the  little  luxuries  of  house- 
keeping,—  tea,  sugar,  coffee,  and  the  like.  At  more  fre- 
quent intervals  comes  a  ten-gallon  cask  from  Greenock, 
whose  contents  can  cunningly  draw  the  icy  fangs  of  a  north- 
easter, or  take  the  chill  out  of  the  clammy  mists. 
"  What  want  they  that  a  king  should  have? " 


IN  A  SKYE  BOTHY.  57 

And  once  a  week  the  Inverness  Courier,  like  a  window  sud- 
denly opened  on  the  roaring  sea,  brings  a  murmur  of  the 
outer  world,  its  politics,  its  business,  its  crimes,  its  literature, 
its  whole  multitudinous  and  unsleeping  life,  making  the 
stillness  yet  more  still.  To  the  Isle'sman  the  dial  face  of 
the  year  is  not  artificially  divided,  as  in  cities,  by  parlia- 
mentary session  and  recess,  college  terms  or  vacations,  short 
and  long,  by  the  rising  and  sitting  of  courts  of  justice  uor 
yet,  as  in  more  fortunate  soils,  by  imperceptible  gradations 
of  colored  light,  the  green  flowery  year  deepening  into  the 
sunset  of  the  October  hollyhock,  the  slow  reddening  of  bur- 
dened orchards,  the  slow  yellowing  of  wheaten  plains. 
Not  by  any  of  these,  but  by  the  higher  and  more  affecting 
element  of  animal  life,  with  its  passions  and  instincts,  its 
gladness  and  suffering ;  existence  like  our  own,  although  in 
a  lower  key,  and  untouched  by  its  solemn  issues  ;  the  same 
music  and  wail,  although  struck  on  ruder  and  uncertain 
chords.  To  the  Isle'sman,  the  year  rises  into  interest 
when  the  hills,  yet  wet  with  melted  snows,  are  pathetic 
with  newly-yeaned  lambs,  and  completes  itself  through  the 
successive  steps  of  weaning,  fleecing,  sorting,  fattening,  sale, 
final  departure,  and  cash  in  pocket.  The  shepherd  life  is 
more  interesting  than  the  agricultural,  inasmuch  as  it  deals 
with  a  higher  order  of  being ;  for  I  suppose  —  apart  from 
considerations  of  profit  —  a  couchant  ewe,  with  her  you  eg 
one  at  her  side,  or  a  ram,  "  with  wreathed  horns  superb," 
cropping  the  herbage,  is  a  more  pleasing  object  to  the  aes- 
thetic sense  than  a  field  of  mangold-wurzel,  flourishing  ever 
so  gloriously.  The  shepherd  inhabits  a  mountain  country, 
lives  more  completely  in  the  open  air,  and  is  acquainted 
with  all  phenomena  of  storm  and  calm,  the  thunder-smoke 
coiling  in  the  wind,  the  hawk  hanging  stationary  in  the 
breathless  blue.  He  knows  the  faces  of  the  hills,  recog- 
nizes the  voices  of  the  torrents  as  if  they  were  children  of 
his  own,  can  unknit  their  intricate  melody,  as  he  lies  with 


58  ALEXANDER   SMITH. 

his  dog  beside  him  on  the  warm  slope  at  noon,  separating 
ione  from  tone,  and  giving  this  to  iron  crag,  that  to  pebbly 
oottom.  From  long  intercourse,  every  member  of  his  flock 
wears  to  his  eye  its  special  individuality,  and  he  recognizes 
the  countenance  of  a  "  wether "  as  he  would  the  counte- 
nance of  a  human  acquaintance.  Sheep-farming  is  a  pic- 
turesque occupation;  and  I  think  a  cataract  of  sheep  de- 
scending a  hillside,  now  gathering  into  a  mighty  pool,  now 
emptying  itself  in  a  rapid  stream,  —  the  dogs,  urged  more 
6y  sagacity  than  by  the  shepherd's  voice,  flying  along  the 
sdges,  turning,  guiding,  changing  the  shape  of  the  mass,  — 
one  of  the  prettiest  sights  in  the  world.  But  the  most 
affecting  incident  of  shepherd  life  is  the  weaning  of  the 
lambs  ;  —  affecting,  because  it  reveals  passions  in  the  "  fleecy 
fuois,"  the  manifestation  of  which  we  are  accustomed  to 
consider  ornamental  in  ourselves.  From  all  the  lulls  men 
and  dogs  drive  the  flocks  down  into  a  fold,  or  fank,  as  it 
is  called  ncre,  consisting  of  several  chambers  or  compart- 
ments. Into  uiese  compartments  the  sheep  are  huddled, 
and  then  the  separation  takes  place.  The  ewes  are  re- 
turned to  the  mountains,  the  lambs  are  driven  away  to 
some  spot  where  tne  pasture  is  rich,  and  wheie  they  are 
watched  day  and  nigiit.  Midnight  comes  with  dews  and 
stars ;  the  troop  is  couched  peacefully  as  the  cloudlets  of 
a  summer  sky.  Suddenly  they  are  i-cstless,  ill  at  ease, 
goaded  by  some  sore  unknown  want,  jt«*d  evince  a  dispo- 
sition to  scatter  in  every  direction ;  out  rhe  shepherds  are 
wary,  the  dogs  swift  and  sure,  and  attei  A  little  while  the 
perturbation  is  allayed,  and  they  rest  ag*an.  Walk  up 
now  to  the  fank.  The  full  moon  is  riding  between  the 
hills,  filling  the  glen  with  lustre  and  floating  mysterious 
glooms.  Listen  !  You  hear  it  on  every  sidt*  uf  you,  till 
it  dies  away  in  the  silence  of  distance,  —  the  ntt^y  Rachel 
weeping  for  her  children.  The  turf  walls  of  the  tetrk  are 
in  shadow,  but  something  seems  to  be  moving  thei-e.  As 


IN  A   SKYE   BOTHY.  59 

you  approach,  it  disappears  with  a  quick,  short  bleat,  and 
a  hurry  of  tiny  hooves.  Wonderful  mystery  of  instinct ! 
Affection  all  the.  more  touching  that  it  is  so  wrapt  in  dark- 
ness, hardly  knowing  its  own  meaning !  For  nights  and 
nights  the  creatures  will  be  found  haunting  about  these 
turfen  walls,  seeking  the  young  that  have  been  taken 
away. 

But  my  chief  delight  here  is  my  friend  and  neighbor, 
Mr.  Maclan.  He  was  a  soldier  in  his  youth :  is  now 
very  old,  —  ninety  and  odd,  I  should  say.  He  would 
strike  one  with  a  sense  of  strangeness  in  a  city,  and  among 
men  of  the  present  generation.  Here,  however,  he  creates 
no  surprise*;  he  is  a  natural  product  of  the  region,  like  the 
red  heather,  or  the  bed  of  the  dried  torrent  He  is  a 
master  of  legendary  lore.  He  knows  the  history  of  every 
considerable  family  in  the  island ;  he  circulates  like  sap 
through  every  genealogical  tree ;  he  is  an  enthusiast  in 
Gaelic  poetry,  and  is  fond  of  reciting  compositions  of  native 
bards,  his  eyes  lighted  up,  and  his  tongue  moving  glibly 
over  the  rugged  clots  of  consonants.  He  has  a  servant 
cunning  upon  the  pipes,  and,  dwelling  there  for  a  week,  I 
heard  Ronald  often  wandering  near  the  house,  solacing 
himself  with  their  music ;  now  a  plaintive  love-song,  now 
a  coronach  for  chieftain  borne  to  his  grave,  now  a  battle 
march,  the  notes  of  which,  melancholy  and  monotonous  at 
first,  would  all  at  once  soar  into  a  higher  strain,  and  then 
hitrry  and  madden  as  beating  time  to  the  footsteps  of  the 
charging  clan.  I  am  the  fool  of  association ;  and  the  tree 
under  which  a  king  has  rested,  the  stone  in  which  a  banner 
was  planted  on  the  morning  of  some  victorious  or  disas- 
trous day,  the  house  in  which  some  great  man  first  saw  the 
light,  are  to  me  the  sacredest  things.  This  slight,  gray, 
keen -eyed  man  —  the  scabbard  sorely  frayed  now,  the  blade 
sharp  and  bright  as  ever  —  gives  me  a  thrill  like  an  old 
coin  with  its  half  obliterated  effigy,  a  Druid  stone  on  a 


60  ALEXANDER   SMITH. 

moor,  a  stain  of  blood  on  the  floor  of  a  palace.  He  stands 
before  me  a  living  figure,  and  history  groups  itself  behind 
by  way  of  background.  He  sits  at  the  same  board  with 
me,  arid  yet  he  lifted  Moore  at  Corunna,  and  saw  the  gal- 
lant dying  eyes  flash  up  with  their  last  pleasure  when  the 
Highlanders  charged  past.  He  lay  down  to  sleep  in  the 
light  of  Wellington's  watch-fires  in  the  gorges  of  the  piny 
Pyrenees ;  around  him  roared  the  death  thunders  of  Water- 
loo. There  is  a  certain  awfulness  about  very  old  men  ; 
they  are  amongst  us,  but  not  of  us.  They  crop  out  of  the 
living  soil  and  herbage  of  to-day,  like  rocky  strata  bearing 
marks  of  the  glacier  or  the  wave.  Their  roots  strike 
deeper  than  ours,  and  they  draw  sustenance  from  an  earlier 
layer  of  soil.  They  are  lonely  amongst  the  young ;  they 
cannot  form  new  friendships,  and  are  willing  to  be  gone. 
They  feel  the  "  sublime  attractions  of  the  grave  "  ;  for  the 
soil  of  churchyards  once  flashed  kind  eyes  on  them, 
heard  with  them  the  chimes  at  midnight,  sang  and  clashed 
the  brimming  goblet  with  them  ;  ami  the  present  Tom  and 
Harry  are  as  nothing  to  the  Tom  and  Harry  that  swag- 
gered about  and  toasted  the  reigning  belles  seventy  years 
ago.  We  are  accustomed  to  lament  the  shortness  of  life ; 
but  it  is  wonderful  how  long  it  is  notwithstanding.  Often  a 
single  life,  like  a  summer  twilight,  connects  two  historic 
days.  Count  back  four  lives,  and  King  Charles  is  kneeling 
on  the  scaffold  at  Whitehall.  To  hear  Mad  an  speak,  one 
could  not  help  thinking  in  this  way.  In  a  short  run  across 
the  mainland  with  him  this  summer,  we  reached  Culloden 
Moor.  The  old  gentleman  with  a  mournful  air  —  for  he  is 
a  great  Jacobite,  and  wears  the,  Prince's  hair  in  a  ring  — 
pointed  out  the  burial-grounds  of  the  clans.  Struck  with 
his  manner,  I  inquired  how  he  came  to  know  their  red 
resting-places.  As  if  hurt,  he  drew  himself  up,  laid  his 
hand  on  my  shoulder,  saying,  "  Those  who  put  them  in  told 
me."  Heavens,  how  a  century  and  odd  years  collapsed, 


IX   A   SKYE   BOTHY.  61 

and  the  bloody  field,  —  the  battle-smoke  not  yet  cleared 
away,  and  where  Cumberland's  artillery  told  the  clansmen 
sleeping  in  thickest  swaths,  —  unrolled  itself  from  the 
horizon  down  to  my  very  feet !  For  a  whole  evening  he 
will  sit  and  speak  of  his  London  life ;  and  I  cannot  help 
contrasting  the  young  officer,  who  trod  Bond  Street  witli 
powder  in  his  hair  at  the  end  of  last  century,  with  the  old 
man  living  in  the  shadow  of  Blavin  now. 

Dwellers  in  cities  have  occasionally  seen  a  house  that 
has  the  reputation  of  being  haunted,  and  heard  a  ghost  story 
told.  Most  of  them  have  knowledge  of  the  trumpet-blast 
that  sounds  when  a  member  of  the  Airlie  family  is  about 
to  die.  Some  few  may  have  heard  of  the  Irish  gentleman 
who,  seated  in  the  London  opera-house  on  the  night  his 
brother  died,  heard  above  the  clash  of  the  orchestra  and  the 
passion  of  the  singers,  the  shrill  warning  keen  of  the  banshee, 
—  an  evil  omen  always  to  him  and  his.  City  people  laugh 
when  these  stories  are  told,  even  although  the  blood  should 
run  chill  the  while.  Here,  one  is  steeped  in  a  ghostly  at- 
mosphere :  men  walk  about  here  gifted  with  the  second 
sight.  There  has  been  something  weird  and  uncanny  about 
the  island  for  some  centuries.  Douglas,  on  the  morning  of 
Otterbourne,  according  to  the  ballad,  was  shaken  unto  super- 
stitious fears :  — 

"  But  I  hae  dreamed  a  dreary  dream, 

Beyond  the  Isle  of  Skye  ; 
I  saw  a  dead  man  win  a  fight, 

And  I  think  that  man  was  I." 

Then  the  island  is  full  of  strange  legends  of  the  Norwe- 
gian times  and  earlier,  —  legends  it  might  be  worth  Mr. 
Dasent's  while  to  take  note  of,  should  he  ever  visit  the  rainy 
Hebrides.  One  such  legend,  concerning  Ossian  and  his 
poems,  struck  me  a  good  deal.  Near  Mr.  Maclan's  place 
is  a  ruined  castle,  a  mere  hollow  shell  of  a  building,  Dun- 
Bcaith  by  name,  built  in  Fingalian  days  by  the  chieftain 


02  -  ALEXANDER  SMITH. 

Cuclmllin,  and  so  called  in  honor  of  his  wife.  The  pile 
crumbles  over  the  sea  on  a  rocky  headland  bearded  by 
gray  green  lichens.  The  place  is  quite  desolate,  and  sel- 
dom visited.  The  only  sounds  heard  there  are  the  sharp 
whistle  of  the  salt  breeze,  the  bleat  of  a  strayed  sheep,  the 
cry  of  wheeling  sea-birds.  Maclan  and  myself  sat  one  sum- 
mer day  on  the  ruined  stair.  The  sea  lay  calm  and  bright 
beneath,  its  expanse  broken  only  by  a  creeping  sail.  Across 
the  loch  rose  the  great  red  lull,  in  the  shadow  of  which 
Boswell  got  drunk  ;  on  the  top  of  which  is  perched  the 
Scandinavian  woman's  cairn.  And  out  of  the  bare  blue 
heaven,  down  on  the  ragged  fringe  of  the  Coolin  hills,  flowed 
a  great  white  vapor  gathering  in  the  sunlight  in  mighty 
fleece  on  fleece.  The  old  gentleman  was  the  narrator,  and 
the  legend  goes  as  follows :  —  The  castle  was  built  by  Cu- 
chullin  and  his  Fingalians  in  a  single  night.  The  chief- 
tain had  many  retainers,  was  a  great  hunter,  and  terrible 
in  war.  Every  night  at  feast  the  minstrel  Ossian  sang  his 
exploits.  Ossian,  on  one  occasion,  in  wandering  among  the 
hills,  was  struck  by  sweet  strains  of  music  that  seemed  to 
issue  from  a  green  knoll  on  which  the  sun  shone  tempt- 
ingly. He  sat  down  to  listen,  and  was  lulled  asleep  by 
the  melody.  He  had  no  sooner  fallen  asleep  than  the  knoil 
opened,  and  he  beheld  the  under-world  of  the  fairies.  That 
afternoon  and  the  succeeding  night  he  spent  in  revelry, 
and  in  the  morning  he  was  allowed  to  return.  Again  the 
music  sounded,  again  the  senses  of  the  minstrel  were  steeped 
in  forgetfulness.  And  on  the  sunny  knoll  he  awoke  a  gray- 
haired  man  ;  for  in  one  short  fairy  afternoon  and  evening 
had  been  crowded  a  hundred  of  our  human  years.  In  his 
absence,  the  world  had  entirely  changed,  the  Fingalians 
were  extinct,  and  the  dwarfish  race,  whom  we  call  men, 
were  possessors  of  the  country.  Longing  for  companion- 
ship, Ossian  married  the  daughter  of  a  shepherd,  and  in 
process  of  time  a  little  girl  was  born  to  him.  Years  passed 


IN  A   SKYE  BOTHY.  63 

on  ;  his  wife  died,  and  his  daughter,  woman  grown  now, 
married  a.  pious  man,  —  for  the  people  were  Christianized 
by  this  time,  —  called,  from  his  love  of  psalmody,  Peter 
of  the  Psalms.  Ossian,  blind  with  age,  went  to  reside  with 
his  daughter  and  her  husband.  Peter  was  engaged  all 
day  in  hunting,  and  when  lie  came  home  at  evening,  and 
when  the  lamp  was  lighted,  Ossian,  sitting  in  a  warm 
corner,  was  wont  to  recite  the  wonderful  songs  of  .  iis 
youth,  and  to  celebrate  the  mighty  battles  and  hunting 
Teats  of  the  big-boned  Fingalians.  To  these  songs  Peter 
of  the  Psalms  gave  attentiye  ear,  and  being  something  of 
a  peuman>%  carefully  inscribed  them  in  a  book.  One  day 
Peter  had  been  more  than  usually  successful  in  the  chase, 
and  brought  home  on  his  shoulders  the  carcass  of  a  huge 
stag.  Of  this  stag  a  leg  was  dressed  for  supper,  and  when 
it  was  picked  bare,  Peter  triumphantly  inquired  of  Ossian, 
"  In  the  Fingalian  days  you  speak  about,  killed  you  ever 
a  stag  so  large  as  this  ? "  Ossian  balanced  the  bone  in 
his  hand ;  then,  sniffing  intense  disdain,  replied,  "  This 
bone,  big  as  you  tln'nk  it,  could  be  dropped  into  the  hollow 
of  a  Fingalian  blackbird's  leg."  Peter  of  the  Psalms,  en- 
raged at  what  he  conceived  an  unconceivable  crammer  on 
the  part  of  his  father-in-law,  started  up,  swearing  that  he 
would  not  ruin  his  soul  by  preserving  any  more  of  his 
lying  songs,  and  flung  the  volume  in  the  fire ;  but  his  wife 
darted  forward  and  snatched  it  up,  half-charred,  from  the 
embers.  At  this  conduct  on  the  part  of  Peter,  Ossian 
groaned  in  spirit,  and  wished  to  die,  that  he  might  be 
saved  from  the  envy  and  stupidities  of  the  little  people, 
whose  minds  were  as  stunted  as  their  bodies.  When  he 
went  to  bed  he  implored  his  ancient  gods  —  for  he  was 
a  sad  heathen  —  to  resuscitate,  if  but  for  one  hour,  the 
hounds,  the  stags,  and  the  blackbirds  of  his  youth,  that  he 
might  astonish  and  confound  the  unbelieving  Peter.  His 
prayers  done,  he  fell  on  slumber,  and  just  before  dawn  a 


64  ALEXANDER   SMITH. 

weight  upon  his  breast  awoke  him.  To  his  great  joy,  he 
found  that  his  prayers  were  answered,  for  upon  his  breast 
was  crouched  his  favorite  hound.  He  spoke  to  it,  and  the 
faithful  creature  whimpered  and  licked  his  face.  Swiftly 
he  called  his  little  grandson,  and  they  went  out  with  the 
hound.  When  they  came  to  the  top  of  an  eminence,  Ossian 
said,  "  Put  your  fingers  in  your  ears,  little  one,  else  I 
will  make  you  deaf  for  life."  The  boy  put  his  fingers  in 
his  ears,  and  then  Ossian  whistled  so  loud  that  the  whole 
world  rang.  He  then  asked  the  child  if  he  saw  anything. 
'k  O,  such  large  deer ! "  said  the  child.  "  But  a  small  herd, 
by  the  sound  of  it,"  said  Ossian ;  u  we  will  let  that  herd 
pass."  Presently  the  child  called  out,  'k  0,  such  large 
deer!"  Ossian  bent  his  ear  to  the  ground  to  catch  the 
sound  of  their  coming,  and  then,  as  if  satisfied,  let  slip 
the  hound,  who  speedily  tore  down  seven  of  the  fattest. 
When  the  animals  were  skinned  and  laid  in  order,  Ossian 
went  towards  a  large  lake,  in  the  centre  of  which  grew  a 
remarkable  bunch  of  rushes.  He  waded  into  the  lake, 
tore  up  the  rushes,  and  brought  to  light  the  great  Finga- 
lian  kettle,  which  had  lain  there  for  more  than  a  century. 
Returning  to  their  quarry,  a  fire  was  kindled ;  the  kettle 
containing  the  seven  carcasses  was  placed  thereupon  ;  and 
soon  a  most  savory  smell  was  spread  abroad  upon  all  the 
winds.  When  the.  animals  were  stewed,  after  the  approve. I 
fashion  of  his  ancestors,  Ossian  sat  down  to  his  repa.  t. 
Now  as,  since  his  sojourn  with  the  fames,  he  had  never 
enjoyed  a  sufficient  meal,  it  was  his  custom  to  gather  up 
the  superfluous  folds  of  his  stomach  by  wooden  splints, 
nine  in  number.  As  he  now  fed  and  expanded,  splint 
after  splint  was  thrown  away,  till  at  last,  when  the  kettle 
was  emptied,  he  lay  down  perfectly  satisfied,  and  silent  as 
ocean  at  the  full  of  tide.  Recovering  himself,  he  gathered 
all  the  bones  together,  —  set  fire  to  them,  till  the  black 
smoke  which  arose  darkened  the  heaven.  "  Little  one," 


IN  A  SKYE  BOTHY.  65 

then  said  Ossian,  "  go  up  to  the  knoll,  and  tell  me  if  you 
see  anything."  '"  A  great  bird  is  flying  hither,"  said  the 
child;  and  immediately  the  great  Fingalian  blackbird 
alighted  at  the  feet  of  Ossian,  who  at  once  caught  and 
throttled  it.  The  fowl  was  carried  home,  and  was  in  the 
evening  dressed  for  supper.  After  it  was  devoured,  Ossian 
called  for  the  stag's  thigh-bone  \shk.h  had  been  the  original 
cause  of  quarrel,  and,  before  the  face  of  the  astonished  and 
convicted  Peter  of  the  Psalms,  dropped  it  in  the  hollow  of 
the  blackbird's  leg.  Ossian  died  on  the  night  of  his  tri- 
umph, and  the  only  record  of  his  songs  is  the  volume  which 
Peter  in  his  rage  threw  into  the  fire,  and  from  which,  when 
half  consumed,  it  was  rescued  by  his  wife. 

I  am  to  stay  with  Mr.  Maclan  to-night.  A  wedding  has 
taken  place  up  among  the  hills,  and  the  whole  party  have 
been  asked  to  make  a  night  of  it.  The  mighty  kitchen  has 
been  cleared  for  the  occasion ;  torches  are  stuck  up  ready 
to  be  lighted ;  and  I  ab-eady  hear  the  first  mutterings  of 
the  bagpipe's  storm  of  sound.  The  old  gentleman  wears 
a  look  of  brightness  and  hilarity,  and  vows  that  he  will 
lead  off  the  first  reel  with  the  bride.  Everything  is  pre- 
pared ;  and  even  now  the  bridal  party  are  coming  down 
the  steep  hill  road.  I  must  go  out  to  meet  them.  To-mor- 
row I  return  to  my  bothy,  to  watch  the  sunny  mists  congre- 
gating on  the  crests  of  Blavin  in  radiant  billow  on  billow, 
and  on  which  the  level  heaven  seems  to  lean. 


RUINS. 

BY  JAMES  GATES  PERCIVAL. 


EARTH  is  a  waste  of  ruins  ;  so  I  deemed, 
When  the  broad  sun  was  sinking  in  the  sea 
Of  sand  that  rolled  around  Palmyra.     Night 
Shared  with  the  dying  day  a  lonely  sky, 
The  canopy  of  regions  void  of  life, 
And  still  as  one  interminable  tomb. 
The  shadows  gathered  on  the  desert,  dark 
And  darker,  till  alone  one  purple  arch 
Marked  the  far  place  of  setting.     All  above 
Was  purely  azure,  for  no  moon  in  heaven 
Walked  in  her  brightness,  and  with  snowy  light 
Softened  the  deep  intensity,  that  gave 
Such  awe  unto  the  blue  serenity 
Of  the  high  throne  of  gods,  the  dwelling-place 
Of  suns  and  stars,  which  are  to  us  as  gods, 
The  fountains  of  existence  and  the  seat 
Of  all  we  dream  of  glory.     Dim  and  vast 
The  ruins  stood  around  me,  —  temples,  fanes, 
Where  the  bright  sun  was  worshipped,  —  where  the}  gave 
Homage  to  Him  who  frowns  in  storms,  and  rolls 
The  desert  like  an  ocean,  —  where  they  bowed 
Unto  the  queen  of  beauty,  she  in  heaven 
Who  gives  the  night  its  loveliness,  and  smiles 
Serenely  on  the  drifted  waste,  and  lends 


RUINS.  67 

A  silver  softness  to  the  ridgy  wave 
Where  the  dark  Arab  sojourns,  and  with  tales 
Of  love  and  beauty  wears  the  tranquil  night 
In  poetry  away,  her  light  the  while 
Falling  upon  him,  as  a  spirit  falls, 
Dove-like  or  curling  down  in  flame,  a  star 
Sparkling  amid  his  flowing  locks,  or  dews 
That  melt  in  gold,  and  steal  into  the  heart, 
Making  it  one  enthusiastic  glow., 
As  if  the  God  were  present,  and  his  voice 
Spake  on  the  eloquent  lips  that  pour  abroad 
A  gush  of  inspiration,  —  bright  as  waves 
Swelling  around  Aurora's  car,  intense 
"With  passion  as  the  fire  that  ever  flows 
In  fountains  on  the  Caspian  shore,  and  full 
As  the  wide-rolling  majesty  of  Nile. 

Over  these  temples  of  an  age  of  wild 
And  dark  belief,  and  yet  magnificent 
In  all  that  strikes  the  senses,  —  beautiful 
In  the  fair  forms  they  knelt  to,  and  the  domes 
And  pillars  which  upreared  them,  —  full  of  life 
In  their  poetic  festivals,  when  youth 
Gave  loose  to  all  its  energy,  in  dance, 
And  song,  and  every  charm  the  fancy  weaves 
In  the  soft  twine  of  cultured  speech,  attuned 
In  perfect  concord  to  the  full-toned  lyre  : 
When  nations  gathered  to  behold  the  pomp 
That  issued  from  the  hallowed  shrine  in  choirs 
Of  youths,  who  bounded  to  the  minstrelsy 
Of  tender  voices,  and  all  instruments 
Of  ancient  harmony,  in*  solemn  trains 
Bearing  the  votive  offerings,  flowing  horns 
Of  plenty  wreathed  with  flowers,  and  gushing  o'er 
With  the  ripe  clusters  of  the  purple  vine, 


68  JAMES   GATES   PERCIVAL. 

The  violet  of  the  fig,  the  scarlet  flush 
Of  granates  peeping  from  the  parted  rind, 
The  citron  shining  through  its  glossy  leaves 
In  burnished  gold,  the  carmine  veiled  in  down, 
Like  mountain  snow,  on  which  the  living  stream 
Flowed  from  Astarte's  minion,  all  that  hang 
In  Eastern  gardens  blended,  —  while  the  sheaf 
Nods  with  its  loaded  ears,  and  brimming  bowls 
Foam  with  the  kindling  element,  the  joy 
Of  banquet,  and  the  nectar  that  inspires 
Man  -with  the  glories  of  a  heightened  power 
To  feel  the  touch  of  beauty,  and  combine 
The  scattered  forms  of  elegance,  till  high 
Rises  a  magic  vision,  blending  all 
That  we  have  seen  of  glory,  such  as  drew 
Assembled  Greece  to  worship,  when  the  form, 
Who  gathered  all  its  loveliness,  arose 
Dewy  and  blushing  from  the  parent  foam, 
Than  which  her  tint  was  fairer,  and  with  hand 
That  seemed  of  living  marble  parted  back 
Her  raven  locks,  and  upward  looked  to  Heaven, 
Smiling  to  see  all  Nature  bright  and  calm  ;  — 
Over  these  temples,  whose  long  colonnades 
Are  parted  by  the  hand  of  time,  and  fall 
Pillar  by  pillar,  block  by  block,  and  strew 
The  ground  in  shapeless  ruin,  night  descends 
Unmingled,  and  the  many  stars  shoot  through 
The  gaps  of  broken  walls,  and  glance  between 
The  shafts  of  tottering  columns,  marking  out 
Obscurely,  on  the  dark  blue  sky,  the  form 
Of  Desolation,  who  hath  made  these  piles 
Her  home,  and,  sitting  with  her  folded  wings, 
Wraps  in  her  dusty  robe  the  skeletons 
Of  a  once  countless  multitude,  whose  toil 
Reared  palaces  and  theatres,  and  brought 


RUINS.  69 

All  the  fair  forms  of  Grecian  art  to  give 
Glory  unto  an  island  girt  with  sands 
As  barren  as  the  ocean,  where  the  grave 
And  stately  Doric  marked  the  solemn  fane 
Where  wisdom  dwelt,  and  on  the  fairer  shrine 
Of  beauty  sprang  the  light  Ionian,  wreathed 
With  a  soft  volute,  whose  simplicity 
Becomes  the  deity  of  loveliness, 
Who  with  her  snowy  mantle,  and  her  zone 
Woven  with  all  attractions,  and  her  locks 
Flowing  as  Nature  bade  them  flow,  compels 
The  sterner  Powers  to  hang  upon  her  smiles. 
And  tifere  the  grand  Corinthian  lifted  high 
Its  flowery  capital,  to  crown  the  porch 
Where  sat  the  sovereign  of  their  hierarchy, 
The  monarch  armed  with  terror,  whose  curled  locks 
Shaded  a  brow  of  thought  and  firm  resolve, 
Whose  eye,  deep  sunk,  shot  out  its  central  fires, 
To  blast  and  wither  all  who  dared  confront 
The  gaze  of  highest  power ;  so  sat  their  kings 
Enshrined  in  palaces,  and  when  they  came 
Thundering  on  their  triumphal  cars,  all  bright 
With  diadem  of  gold,  and  purple  robe 
Flashing  with  gems,  before  their  rushing  train 
Moving  in  serried  columns  fenced  in  steel, 
The  herd  of  slaves  obsequious  sought  the  dust, 
And  gazed  not  as  the  mystic  pomp  rolled  by. 
Such  were  thy  monarchs,  Tadmor !  now  thy  streets 
Are  silent,  and  thy  walls  o'erthrown,  no  voice 
Speaks  through  the  long  dim  night  of  years,  to  tell 
These  were  once  peopled  dwellings ;  I  could  dream 
Some  sorcerer  in  his  moonlight  wanderings  reared 
These  wonders  in  an  hour  of  sport,  to  mock 
The  stranger  with  the  show  of  life,  and  send 
Thought  through  the  mist  of  ages,  in  the  search 


70  JAMES  GATES  PERCIVAL. 

Of  nations  who  are  now  no  more,  who  lived 

Erst  in  the  pride  of  empire,  ruled  and  swayed 

Millions  in  their  supremacy,  and  toiled 

To  pile  these  monuments  of  wealth  and  skill, 

That  here  the  wandering  tribe  might  pitch  its  tents 

Securer  in  their  empty  courts,  and  we, 

"Who  have  the  sense  of  greatness,  low  might  kneel 

To  ancient  mind,  and  gather  from  the  torn 

And  scattered  fragments  visions  of  the  power, 

And  splendor,  and  sublimity  of  old, 

Mocking  the  grandest  canopy  of  heaven, 

And  imaging  the  pomp  of  gods  below. 


A  REVELATION  OF  CHILDHOOD. 

(FROM  A  LETTER.) 
BY  MRS.  JAMESON. 

I  WILL  here  put  together  some  recollections  of 
child-life*;  not  because  it  was  in  any  respect  an  excep- 
tional or  remarkable  existence,  but  for  a  reason  exactly  the 
i  everse,  because  it  was  like  that  of  many  children ;  at  least 
I  have  met  with  many  children  who  throve  or  suffered  from 
the  same  or  similar  unseen  causes  even  under  external  con- 
ditions and  management  every  way  dissimilar.  Facts,  there- 
fore, which  can  be  relied  on,  may  be  generally  useful  as 
Iiints  towards  a  theory  of  conduct.  What  I  shall  say  here 
fehall  be  simply  the  truth  so  far  as  it  goes ;  not  something 
between  the  false  and  the  true,  garnished  for  effect,  —  not 
something  half  remembered,  half  imagined,  —  but  plain,  ab- 
solute, matter  of  fact. 

No  ;  certainly  I  was  not  an  extraordinary  child.  I  have 
had  something  to  do  with  children,  and  have  met  with 
several  more  remarkable  for  quickness  of  talent  and  pre- 
cocity of  feeling.  If  anything  in  particular,  I  believe  I  was 
particularly  naughty,  —  at  least  so  it  was  said  twenty  tunes 
a  day.  But  looking  back  now,  I  do  not  think  I  was  par- 
ticular even  in  this  respect ;  I  perpetrated  not  more  than 
the  usual  amount  of  mischief — so  called  —  which  every 
lively,  active  child  perpetrates  between  five  and  ten  years 
old.  I  had  the  usual  desire  to  know,  and  the  usual 


72  MRS.   JAMESON. 

to  learn  ;  the  usual  love  of  fairy-tales,  and  hatred  of  French 
exercises.  But  not  of  what  I  learned,  but  of  what  I  did  not 
learn  ;  not  of  what  they  taught  me,  but  of  what  they  could 
not  teach  me  ;  not  of  what  was  open,  apparent,  manageable, 
but  of  the  under-current,  the  hidden,  the  unmanaged  or 
unmanageable,  I  have  to  speak,  and  you,  my  friend,  to  he.ir 
and  turn  to  account,  if  you  will,  and  how  you  will.  As  \ve 
grow  old  the  experiences  of  infancy  come  back  upon  us 
with  a  strange  vividness.  There  is  a  period  when  the  oxer- 
flowing,  tumultuous  life  of  our  youth  rises  up  between  us 
and  those  first  years  ;  but  as  the  torrent  subsides  in  its  bed, 
we  can  look  across  the  impassable  gulf  to  that  haunted  fairy- 
land which  we  shall  never  more  approach,  and  never  more 
forget ! 

In  memory  I  can  go  back  to  a  very  early  age.  I  per- 
fectly remember  being  sung  to  sleep,  and  can  remember 
even  the  tune  which  was  sang  to  me,  —  blessings  on  the 
voice  that  sang  it !  I  was  an  affectionate,  but  not,  as  I  now 
think,  a  lovable  nor  an  attractive  child.  I  did  not,  like  the 
little  Mozart,  ask  of  every  one  around  me,  "  Do  you  love 
me  ?  "  The  instinctive  question  was,  rather,  "  Can  I  love 
you  ?  "  Yet  certainly  I  was  not  more  than  six  years  old 
when  I  suffered  from  the  fear  of  not  being  loved  where  I 
had  attached  myself,  and  from  the  idea  that  another  was 
preferred  before  me,  such  anguish  as  had  nearly  killed  me. 
Whether  those  around  me  regarded  it  as  a  fit  of  ill-temper, 
or  a  fit  of  illness,  I  do  not  know.  I  coidd  not  then  have 
given  a  name  to  the  pang  that  fevered  me.  I  knew  not  the 
cause,  but  never  forgot  the  suffering.  It  left  a  deeper 
impression  than  childish  passions  usually  do ;  and  the  recol- 
lection was  so  far  salutary,  that  in  after  life  I  guarded 
myself  against  the  approaches  of  that  hateful,  deformed, 
agonizing  thing  which  men  call  jealousy,  as  I  would  from 
an  attack  of  cramp  or  cholera.  If  such  self-knowledge  has 


A  REVELATION  OF   CHILDHOOD.  73 

not  saved  me  from  the  pain,  at  least  it  has  saved  me  from 
the  demoralizing  effects  of  the  passion,  by  a  wholesome 
terror,  and  even  a  sort  of  disgust. 

With  a  good  temper,  there  was  the  capacity  of  strong, 
deep,  silent  resentment,  and  a  vindictive  spirit  of  rather  a 
peculiar  kind.  I  recollect  that  when  one  of  those  set  over 
me  inflicted  what  then  appeared  a  most  horrible  injury 
and  injustice,  the  thoughts  of  vengeance  haunted  my  fancy 
for  months ;  but  it  was  an  inverted  sort  of  vengeance. 
I  imagined  the  house  of  my  enemy  on  fire,  and  rushed 
through  the  flames  to  rescue  her.  She  was  drowning,  and 
I  leaped  into  the  deep  water  to  draw  her  forth.  She  was 
pining  in  prison,  and  I  forced  bars  and  bolts  to  deliver  her. 
If  this  were  magnanimity,  it  was  not  the  less  vengeance ; 
for,  observe,  I  always  fancied  evil,  and  shame,  and  humilia- 
tion to  my  adversary ;  to  myself  the  role  of  superiority  and 
gratified  pride.  For  several  years  this  sort  of  burning  re- 
sentment against  wrong  done  to  myself  and  others,  though  it 
took  no  mean  or  cruel  form,  was  a  source  of  intense,  untold 
suffering.  No  one  was  aware  of  it.  I  was  left  to  settle  it ; 
and  my  mind  righted  itself  I  hardly  know  how ;  not  cer- 
tainly by  religious  influences,  —  they  passed  over  my  mind, 
and  did  not  at  the  time  sink  into  it,  —  and  as  for  earthly 
counsel  or  comfort,  I  never  had  either  when  most  needed. 
And  as  it  fared  with  me  then,  so  it  has  been  in  after  life  ;  so 
it  has  been,  must  be,  with  all  those  who,  in  fighting  out  alone 
the  pitched  battle  between  principle  and  passion,  will  accept 
no  intervention  between  the  infinite  within  them  and  the 
infinite  above  them  ;  so  it  has  been,  must  be,  with  all  strong 
natures.  Will  it  be  said,  that  victory  in  the  struggle  brings 
increase  of  strength  ?  It  may  be  so  with  some  who  survive 
fhe  contest ;  but  then,  how  many  sink !  how  many  are  crip- 
pled morally  for  life  !  how  many,  strengthened  in  some  par- 
ticular faculties,  suffer  in  losing  the  harmony  of  the  char- 
acter as  a  whole  !  This  is  one  of  the  points  in  which  the 


71  Mi:S.   JAMKSON. 

matured   mind   may  help  the  childish   nature  at  strife  with 
It  is  impossible,  to  say  how  Car  this  sort  of  vindictive- 
ni'dif    have    |)ciictrafc(l    and    hardened    into   the   char- 
acter, if  I    ha<!    hi-en  of  a   timi<l   or   retiring  nature.      It  was 
expelled   ;it    last  by  no  outer  influences,  but  by  a  growing 
sense  of  power  and  self-reliance. 

In  regard  to  truth  —  always  such  a  difficulty  in  education 
—  I  certainly  had,  as  a  c[iild,  and  like,  most  children,  con- 
fused ideas  about  it.  I  had  a  more  distinct  and  absolute 
idea  of  honor  than  of  truth,  —  a  mistake  into  which  our 
conventional  morality  leads  those  who  educate  and  those 
who  arc  educated.  I  knew  very  well,  in  a  general  way, 
that  to  tell  a  lie  was  wicked;  to  lie  for  my  own  profit  or 
pleasure,  or  to  the  hurt  of  others,  was,  according  to  my 
infant  code  of  morals,  worse  than  wicked,  —  it  was  dishonor- 
able. But  I  had  no  compunction  about  telling  fictions; 
inventing  aoenes  and  circumstances  which  I  related  ns  real, 
and  with  a  keen  sense  of  triumphant  enjoyment  in  seeing 
the  listener  taken  in  by  a  most  artful  and  ingenious  concate- 
nation of  impossibilities.  In  this  respect  "  Ferdinand  Men- 
dez  Pinto,  that  liar  of  the  first  magnitude,"  was  nothing  in 
comparison  to  me.  I  must  have  been  twelve  years  old 
before  my  conscience  was  first  awakened  up  to  a  sense  of 
the  necessity  of  truth  as  a  principle,  as  well  as  its  holiness 
as  a  virtue.  Afterwards,  having  to  set  right  the  minds  of 
others  cleared  my  own  mind  on  this  and  some  other  impor- 
tant points. 

I  do  not  think  I  was  naturally  obstinate,  but  remember 
gomg  without  food  all  day,  and  being  sent  hungry  and 
exhausted  to  bed,  because  I  would  not  do  some  trifling 
thing  required  of  me.  I  think  it  was  to  recite  some  lines 
1  knew  by  heart.  I  was  punished  as  wilfully  obstinate  ; 
but  what  no  one  knew  then,  and  what  I  know  now  as  the 


A  REVELATION  OF  CHILDHOOD.         75 

feet,  was,  tliat  after  refusing  to  do  what  was  require  1,  and 
bearing  anger  and  threats  in  consequence,  I  lost  the  power 
to  do  it.  I  became  stone :  the  will  was  petrified,  and  I 
absolutely  could  not  comply.  They  might  have  hacked  me 
in  pieces  before  my  lips  could  have  unclosed  to  utterance. 
The  obstinacy  was  not  in  the  mind,  but  on  the  nerves ;  and 
I  am  persuaded  that  what  we  call  obstinacy  in  children, 
and  grown-up  people  too,  is  often  something  of  this  kind, 
arid  that  it  may  be  increased  by  mismanagement,  by  per- 
sistence, or  what  is  called  firmness  in  the  controlling  power, 
into  disease,  or  something  near  to  it 

There  was*  in  my  childish  mind  another  cause  of  Buffer- 
sides  those  I  have  mentioned,  less  acute,  but  more 
permanent,  and  always  unacknowledged.  It  was  fear, — 
fear  of  darkness  and  supernatural  influences.  As  long  as 
I  can  remember  anything,  I  remember  these  horrors  of  my 
infancy.  How  they  had  been  awakened  I  do  not  know ; 
they  were  never  revealed.  I  had  heard  other  children 
ridiculed  for  such  fears,  and  held  my  peace.  At  first  these 
haunting,  thrilling,  stifling  terrors  were  vague ;  afterwards 
the  form  varied ;  but  one  of  the  most  permanent  was  the 
ghost  in  Hamlet.  There  was  a  volume  of  Shakespeare 
lying  about,  in  which  was  an  engraving  I  hz*ve  not  seen 
since,  but  it  remains  distinct  in  my  mind  as  a  picture.  On 
one  side  stood  Hamlet  with  his  hair  on  end,  literally  "  like 
quills  upon  the  fretful  porcupine,"  and  one  hand  with  all 
the  fingers  outspread.  On  the  other  strided  the  ghost, 
encased  in  armor  with  nodding  plumes ;  one  finger  point- 
ing forwards,  and  all  surrounded  with  a  supernatural  light. 

0  that   spectre!  for   three   years  it  followed   me   up   and 
down   the   dark   staircase,  or  stood   by  my  bed:  only  the 
blessed  light  had  power  to  exorcise  it.     How  it  was  that 

1  knew,  while  I  trembled  and  quaked,  that  it  was  unreal, 
never  cried  cut,  never  expostulated,  never  confessed,  I  do 


76  MRS.  JAMESON. 

not  know.  The  'figure  of  Apollyon  looming  over  Christum, 
which  I  had  found  in  an  old  edition  of  the  <%  Pilgrim's 
Progress,"  was  also  a  great  torment.  But  worse,  perhaps, 
were  certain  phantasms  without  shape,  —  tilings  like  the 
vision  in  Job,  —  "  A  spirit  passed  before  my  face  ;  it  stood 
still,  hit  I  could  not  discern  the  form  thereof" :  —  and  if 
not  intelligible  voices,  there  were  strange,  unaccountable 
sounds  filling  the  air  around  with  a  sort  of  mysterious  life. 
In  daylight  I  was  not  only  fearless,  but  audacious,  inclined 
to  defy  all  power  and  brave  all  danger,  —  that  is,  all  danger 
I  could  see.  I  remember  volunteering  to  lead  the  way 
through  a  herd  of  cattle  (among  which  was  a  dangerous 
bull,  the  terror  of  the  neighborhood)  armed  only  with  a 
little  stick;  but  first  I  said  the  Lord's  Prayer  fervently. 
In  the  ghastly  night  I  never  prayed ;  terror  stifled  prayer. 
These  visionary  sufferings,  in  some  form  or  other,  pursued 
me  till  I  was  nearly  twelve  years  old.  If  I  had  not  pos- 
sessed a  strong  constitution  and  a  strong  understanding, 
which  rejected  and  contemned  my  own  fears,  even  while 
they  shook  me,  I  had  been  destroyed.  How  much  weaker 
children  suffer  in  this  way  I  have  since  known,  and  have 
known  how  to  bring  them  help  and  strength,  through  sym- 
pathy and  knowledge,  —  the  sympathy  that  soothes,  anJ 
does  not  encourage,  the  knowledge  that  dispels,  and  does 
not  suggest,  the  evil. 

People,  in  general,  even  those  who  have  been  much  in- 
terested in  education,  are  not  aware  of  the  sacred  duty  of 
truth,  exact  truth  in  their  intercourse  with  children.  Limit 
what  you  tell  them  according  to  the  measure  of  their  fac- 
ulties ;  but  let  what  you  say  be  the  truth.  Accuracy,  not 
merely  as  to  fact,  but  well-considered  accuracy  in  the  use 
of  words,  is  essential  with  children.  I  have  read  some 
wise  book  on  the  treatment  of  the  insane,  in  which  absolute 
veracity  and  accuracy  in  speaking  is  prescribed  as  a  cura- 
tive principle ;  and  deception  for  any  purpose  is  deprecated 


A  REVELATION  OF   CHILDHOOD.  77 

as  almost  fatal  to  the  health  of  the  patient.  New.  it  is  a 
good  sanitary  principle,  that  what  is  curative  is  preventive ; 
and  that  an  unhealthy  state  of  mind,  leading  to  madness, 
may,  in  some  organizations,  be  induced  by  that  sort  of 
uncertainty  and  perplexity  which  grows  up  where  the  mind 
has  not  been  accustomed  to  truth  in  its  external  relations. 
It  is  like  breathing  for  a  continuance  an  impure  or  con- 
fined air. 

Of  the  mischief  that  may  be  done  to  a  childish  mind  by 
a  falsehood  uttered  in  thoughtless  gayety,  I  remember  an 
absurd  and  yet  a  painful  instance.  A  visitor  was  turning 
over,  for  a  little  girl,  some  prints,  one  of  which  represented 
an  Indian  widow  springing  into  the  fire  kindled  for  the 
funeral  pile  of  her  husband.  It  was  thus  explained  to 
the  child,  who  asked,  innocently,  whether,  if  her  father 
died  her  mother  would  be  burned  ?  The  person  to  whom 
the  question  was  addressed,  a  lively,  amiable  woman,  was 
probably  much  amused  by  the  question,  and  answered 
giddily,  "  O,  of  course,  —  certainly  !  "  and  was  believed 
implicitly.  But  thenceforth,  for  many  weary  months,  the 
mind  of  that  child  was  haunted  and  tortured  by  the  image 
of  her  mother  springing  into  the  devouring  flames,  and 
consumed  by  fire,  with  all  the  accessories  of  the  picture, 
particularly  the  drums  beating  to  drown  her  cries.  In  a 
weaker  organization,  the  results  might  have  been  perma- 
nent and  serious.  But  to  proceed. 

These  terrors  I  have  described  had  an  existence  ex- 
ternal to  myself:  I  had  no  power  over  them  to  shape 
;hem  by  my  will,  and  their '  power  over  me  vanished 
gradually  before  a  more  dangerous  infatuation,  —  the  pro- 
pensity to  reverie.  The  shaping  spirit  of  imagination  be- 
gan when  I  was  about  eight  or  nine  years  old  to  haunl 
my  inner  life.  I  can  truly  say  that,  from  ten  years  old  to 
fourteen  or  fifteen,  I  lived  a  double  existence ;  one  out- 
ward, linking  me  with  the  external  sensible  world,  the 


78  MRS.  JAMESON. 

other  inward,  creating  a  world  to  and  for  itself,  conscious 
to  itself  only.  I  carried  on  for  whole  years  a  series  of 
actions,  scenes,  and  adventures ;  one  springing  out  of  an- 
other, and  colored  and  modified  by  increasing  knowledge. 
This  habit  grew  so  upon  me,  that  there  were  moments  — 
as  when  I  came  to  some  crisis  in  my  imaginary  adven- 
tures—  when  I  was  not  more  awake  to  outward  tilings 
Mian  in  sleep,  —  scarcely  took  cognizance  of  the  beings 
around  me.  When  punished  for  idleness  by  being  placed 
in  solitary  confinement  (the  worst  of  all  punishments  for 
children),  the  intended  penance  was  nothing  less  than  a 
delight  and  an  emancipation,  giving  me  up  to  my  dreams. 
I  had  a  very  strict  and  very  accomplished  governess,  one 
of  the  cleverest  women  I  have  ever  met  with  in  my  life ; 
but  nothing  of  this  was  known  or  even  suspected  by  her, 
and  I  exulted  in  posse  sing  something  which  her  power 
could  not  reach.  My  reveries  were  my  real  life :  it  was 
an  unhealthy  state  of  things. 

Those  who  are  engaged  in  the  training  of  children  will 
perhaps  pause  here.  It  may  be  said,  in  the  first  place, 
How  are  we  to  reach  those  recesses  of  the  inner  life 
which  the  God  who  made  us  keeps  from  every  eye  but  his 
own  ?  As  when  we  walk  over  the  field  in  spring  we  are 
aware  of  a  thousand  influences  and  processes  at  work  of 
which  we  have  no  exact  knowledge  or  clear  perception, 
yet  must  watch  and  use  according,  —  so  it  is  with  educa- 
I  ion.  And,  secondly,  it  may  be  asked,  if  such  secret  pro- 
cesses be  working  unconscious  mischief,  where  the  remedy  ? 
The  remedy  is  in  employment.  Then  the  mother  or  the 
teacher  echoes,  with  astonishment,  "  Employment !  the  child 
is  employed  from  morning  till  night ;  she  is  learning  a 
dozen  sciences  and  languages ;  she  has  masters  and  lesson? 
for  every  hour  of  every  day ;  with  her  pencil,  her  piano, 
her  books,  her  companions,  her  birds,  her  flowers,  —  what 
can  she  want  more  ?  "  An  energetic  child  even  at  a  very 


A  REVELATION  OF  CHILDHOOD.  79 

early  age,  and  yet  further  as  the  physical  organization  is 
developed,  wants  something  more  and  something  better; 
employment  which  shall  bring  with  it  the  bond  of  a  higher 
duty  than  that  which  centres  in  self  and  self-improvement ; 
employment  which  shall  not  merely  cultivate  the  under- 
standing, but  strengthen  and  elevate  the  conscience ;  em- 
ployment for  the  higher  and  more  generous  faculties ; 
employment  addressed  to  the  sympathies ;  employment 
which  has  the  aim  of  utility,  not  pretended,  but  real,  ob- 
vious, direct  utility.  A  girl  who  as  a  mere  child  is  not 
always  being  taught  or  being  amused,  whose  mind  is  early 
restrained  by  the  bond  of  definite  duty,  and  thrown  out  of 
the  limit  o^  self,  will  not  in  after  years  be  subject  to  fancies 
that  disturb  or  to  reveries  that  absorb,  and  the  present  and 
the  actual  will  have  that  power  they  ought  to  have  as  com- 
bined in  due  degree  with  desire  and  anticipation. 

The  Roman  Catholic  priesthood  understand  this  well 
employment,  which  enlists  with  the  spiritual  the  sympa- 
thetic part  of  our  being,  is  a  means  through  which  they 
guide  both  young  and  adult  minds.  Physicians  who  have 
to  manage  various  states  of  mental  and  moral  disease  un- 
derstand this  well ;  they  speak  of  the  necessity  of  employ- 
ment (not  mere  amusement)  as  a  curative  means,  but  of 
employment  with  the  direct  aim  of  usefulness,  apprehended 
and  appreciated  by  the  patient,  else  it  is  nothing.  It  is 
the  same  with  children.  Such  employment,  chosen  with 
reference  to  utility,  and  in  harmony  with  the  faculties, 
would  prove  in  many  cases  either  preventive  or  curatire. 
In  my  own  case,  as  I  now  think,  it  would  have  been  both. 

There  was  a  time  when  it  was  thought  essential  that 
women  should  know  something  of  cookery,  something  of 
medicine,  something  of  surgery.  If  all  these  things  are 
far  better  understood  now  than  heretofore,  is  that  a  reason 
why  a  well-educated  woman  should  be  left  wholly  ignorant 
of  them  ?  A  knowledge  of  what  people  call  "  common 


80  MRS.  JAMESON. 

tilings,"  —  of  the  elements  of  physiology,  of  the  conditions 
of  health,  of  the  qualities,  nutritive  or  remedial,  of  sub- 
stances commonly  used  as  food  or  medicine,  and  the  most 
economical  and  the  most  beneficial  way  of  applying  both,  — 
these  should  form  a  part  of  the  system  of  every  girls' 
school,  —  whether  for  the  higher  or  the  lower  classes.  At 
present  you  shall  see  a  girl  studying  chemistry,  and  attend- 
ing Faraday's  lectures,  who  would  be  puzzled  to  compound 
a  rice-pudding  or  a  cup  of  barley-water:  and  a  girl  who 
could  work  quickly  a  complicated  sum  in  the  Rule  of  Three, 
afterwards  wasting  a  fourth  of  her  husband's  wages  through 
want  of  management. 

In  my  own  case,  how  much  of  the  practical  and  sympa- 
thetic in  my  nature  was  exhausted  in  airy  visions ! 

As  to  the  stuff  out  of  which  my  waking  dreams  were 
composed,  I  cannot  tell  you  much.  I  have  a  remembrance 
that  I  was  always  a  princess  heroine  in  the  disguise  of  a 
knight,  a  sort  of  Clorinda  or  Britomart,  going  about  to  re- 
dress the  wrongs  of  the  poor,  fight  giants  and  kill  dragons ; 
or  founding  a  society  in  some  far-off  solitude  or  desolate 
island,  which  would  have  rivalled  that  of  Gonsalez,  where 
there  were  to  be  no  tears,  no  tasks,  and  no  laws,  —  except 
those  which  I  made  myself,  —  no  caged  birds  nor  tormented 
kittens. 

Enough  of  the  pains,  and  mistakes,  and  vagaries  of 
childhood ;  let  me  tell  of  some  of  its  pleasures  equally  un- 
guessed  and  unexpressed.  A  great,  an  exquisite  source  of 
enjoyment  arose  out  of  an  early,  instinctive,  boundless  de 
light  in  external  beauty.  How  this  went  hand  in  hand  with 
my  terrors  and  reveries,  how  it  could  coexist  with  them,  I 
cannot  tell  now  —  it  was  so ;  and  if  this  sympathy  with  the 
external,  living,  beautiful  world  had  been  properly,  scien- 
tifically cultivated,  and  directed  to  useful  definite  purposes, 
it  \\  ould  have  been  the  best  remedy  for  much  that  was  mor- 


A  REVELATION  OF  CHILDHOOD.          81 

bid ;  this  was  not  the  case,  and  we  were,  unhappily  for  me, 
loo  early  removed  from  the  country  to  a  town  residence.  I 
can  remember,  however,  that  in  very  early  years  the  appear- 
ances of  nature  did  truly  "  haunt  me  like  a  passion  " ;  the 
stars  were  to  me  as  the  gates  of  heaven ;  the  rolling  of  the 
wave  to  the  shore ;  the  graceful  weeds  and  grasses  bending 
before  the  breeze  as  they  grew  by  the  wayside  ;  the  minute 
and  delicate  forms  of  insects ;  the  trembling  shadows  of 
boughs  and  leaves  dancing  on  the  ground  hi  the  highest 
noon ;  —  these  were  to  me  perfect  pleasures,  of  which  the 
imagery  now  in  my  mind  is  distinct  Wordsworth's  poem 
of  "  The  Daffodils,"  —  the  one  beginning 

**         "  I  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud,"  — 

may  appear  to  some  unintelligible  or  overcharged,  but  to  me 
it  was  a  vivid  truth,  a  simple  fact ;  and  if  Wordsworth  had 
been  then  in  my  hands,  I  think  I  must  have  loved  him.  It 
was  this  intense  sense  of  beauty  which  gave  the  first  zest  to 
poetry :  I  loved  it,  not  because  it  told  me  what  I  did  not 
know,  but  because  it  helped  me  to  words  in  which  to  clothe 
my  own  knowledge  and  perceptions,  and  reflected  back  the 
pictures  unconsciously  hoarded  up  in  my  mind.  This  was 
what  made  Thomson's  "  Seasons  "  a  favorite  book  when  I 
first  began  to  read  for  my  own  amusement,  and  before  I 
could  understand  one  half  of  it ;  St.  Pierre's  "  Indian  Cotr 
tage "  ("  La  Chaumiere  Indienne ")  was  also  charming, 
either  because  it  reflected  my  dreams,  or  gave  me  new  stuff 
for  them  in  pictures  of  an  external  world  quite  different 
from  that  I  inhabited,  —  palm-trees,  elephants,  tigers,  dark- 
turbaned  men  with  flowing  draperies ;  and  the  "  Arabian 
Nights  "  completed  my  Oriental  intoxication,  which  lasted 
for  a  long  time. 

I  have  said  little  of  the  impressions  left  by  books,  and  of 
my  first  religious  notions.     A  friend  of  mine  had  once  the 
wise  idea  of  collecting  together  a  variety  of  evidence  as  to 
6 


82  MRS.  JAMESON. 

the  impressions  left  by  certain  books  on  childish  or  imma- 
ture minds.  If  carried  out,  it  would  have  been  one  of  the 
most  valuable  additions  to  educational  experience  ever  made. 
For  myself,  I  did  not  much  care  about  the  books  put  into 
my  hands,  nor  imbibe  much  information  from  them.  I  had 
a  great  taste,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  for  forbidden  books ;  yet  it 
was  not  the  forbidden  books  that  did  the  mischief,  except  in 
their  being  read  furtively.  I  remember  impressions  of  vice 
and  cruelty  from  some  parts  of  the  Old  Testament  and 
Goldsmith's  "  History  of  England,"  which  I  shudder  to  re- 
call. Shakespeare  was  on  the  forbidden  shelf.  I  had  read 
him  all  through  between  seven  and  ten  years  old.  He 
never  did  me  any  moral  mischief.  He  never  soiled  my 
mind  with  any  disordered  image.  What  was  exceptionable 
and  coarse  in  language  I  passed  by  without  attaching  any 
meaning  whatever  to  it.  How  it  might  have  been  if  I  had 
read  Shakespeare  first  when  I  was  fifteen  or  sixteen,  I  do 
not  know;  perhaps  the  occasional  coarseness  and  obscuri- 
ties might  have  shocked  the  delicacy  or  puzzled  the  intelli- 
gence of  that  sensitive  and  inquiring  age.  But  at  nine  or 
ten  I  had  no  comprehension  of  what  was  unseemly ;  what 
might  be  obscure  in  words  to  wordy  commentators,  was  to 
me  lighted  up  by  the  idea  I  found  or  interpreted  for  myself, 
—  right  or  wrong. 

No ;  I  repeat,  Shakespeare  —  bless  him  !  —  never  did  me 
any  moral  mischief.  Though  the  Witches  in  Macbeth 
troubled  me,  —  though  the  Ghost  in  Hamlet  terrified  me 
(the  picture,  that  is,  —  for  the  spirit  hi  Shakespeare  was  sol- 
emn and  pathetic,  not  hideous),  —  though  poor  little  Arthur 
cost  me  an  ocean  of  tears,  —  yet  much  that  was  obscure, 
and  all  that  was  painful  and  revolting,  was  merged  on  the 
whole  in  the  vivid  presence  of  a  new,  beautiful,  vigorous 
living  world.  The  plays  which  I  now  think  the  most  won- 
derful produced  comparatively  little  effect  on  my  fancy  :  Ro- 
me 3  and  Juliet,  Othello,  Macbeth,  struck  me  then  less  than 


A  REVELATION  OF  CHILDHOOD.  83 

the  historical  plays,  and  far  less  than  the  Midsummer 
Night's  Dream  and  Cymbeline.  It  may  be  thought,  per- 
haps, that  FUstaff  is  not  a  character  to  strike  a  child,  or  to 
be  understood  by  a  child :  —  no ;  surely  not.  To  me  Fal- 
staff  was  not  witty  and  wicked,  —  only  irresistibly  fat  and 
funny ;  and  I  remember  lying  on  the  ground  rolling  with 
laughter  over  some  of  the  scenes  in  Henry  the  Fourth,  — 
the  mock  play,  and  the  seven  men  in  buckram.  But  the 
Tempest  and  Cymbeline  were  the  plays  I  liked  best  and 
knew  best. 

Altogether,  I  should  say  that  in  my  early  years  books 
were  known  to  me,  not  as  such,  not  for  their  general  con- 
tents, but  for  some  especial  image  or  picture  I  had  picked 
out  of  them  and  assimilated  to  my  own  mind  and  mixed  up 
with  my  own  life.  For  example,  out  of  Homer's  Odyssey 
(lent  to  me  by  the  parish  clerk)  I  had  the  picture  of  Xasi- 
caa  and  her  maidens  going  down  in  their  chariots  to  wash 
their  linen :  so  that  when  the  first  time  I  went  to  the  Pitti 
Palace,  and  could  hardly  see  the  pictures  through  blinding 
tears,  I  saw  that  picture  of  Rubens,  which  all  remember 
who  have  been  at  Florence,  and  it  flashed  delight  and  re- 
freshment through  those  remembered  childish  associations. 
The  Sirens  and  Polypheme  left  also  vivid  pictures  on  my 
fancy.  The  Iliad,  on  the  contrary,  wearied  me,  except  the 
parting  of  Hector  and  Andromache,  in  which  the  child, 
scared  by  its  father's  dazzling  helm  and  nodding  crest,  re- 
mains a  vivid  image  in  my  mind  from  that  time. 

The  same  parish  clerk  —  a  curious  fellow  in  his  way  — 
lent  me  also  some  religious  tracts  and  stories,  by  Hannah 
More.  It  is  most  certain  that  more  moral  mischief  was  done 
to  me  by  some  of  these  than  by  all  Shakespeare's  plays  to- 
gether. These  so-called  pious  tracts  first  introduced  me  to  a 
knowledge  of  the  vices  of  vulgar  life  and  the  excitements  of 
a  vulgar  religion,  —  the  fear  of  being  hanged  and  the  fear 
of  hell  became  coexistent  in  my  mind ;  and  the  teaching 


84  MRS.  JAMESON. 

resolved  itself  into  this,  —  that  it  was  not  by  be.Vig  naughty, 
but  by  being  found  out,  that  I  was  to  incur  the  risk  of  both. 
My  fairy  world  was  better ! 

About  religion  ;  —  I  was  taught  religion  as  children  used 
to  be  taught  it  in  my  younger  days,  and  are  taught  it  still  in 
some  cases,  I  believe,  —  through  the  medium  of  creeds  and 
catechisms.  I  read  the  Bible  too  early,  and  too  indiscrim- 
inately, and  too  irreverently.  Even  the  New  Testament 
was  too  early  placed  in  my  hands  ;  too  early  made  a  lesson- 
book,  as  the  custom  then  was.  The  letter  of  the  Scriptures 
—  the  words  —  were  familiarized  to  me  by  sermonizing  and 
dogmatizing,  long  before  I  could  enter  into  the  spirit.  Mean- 
time, happily,  another  religion  was  growing  up  in  my  heart, 
which,  strangely  enough,  seemed  to  me  quite  apart  from  that 
which  was  taught,  —  which,  indeed,  I  never  in  any  way 
regarded  as  the  same  which  I  was  taught  when  I  stood  up 
wearily  on  a  Sunday  to  repeat  the  collect  and  say  the  cate- 
chism. It  was  quite  another  thing.  Not  only  the  taught 
religion  and  the  sentiment  of  faith  and  adoration  were  never 
combined,  but  it  never  for  years  entered  into  my  head  to 
combine  them  ;  the  first  remained  extraneous,  the  latter  had 
gradually  taken  root  in  my  life,  even  from  the  moment  my 
mother  joined  my  little  hands  in  prayer.  The  histories  out 
of  the  Bible  (the  Parables  especially)  were,  however,  en- 
chanting to  me,  though  my  interpretation  of  them  was  in 
some  instances  the  very  reverse  of  correct  or  orthodox.  To 
my  infant  conception  our  Lord  was  a  being  who  had  come 
down  from  heaven  to  make  people  good,  and  to  tell  them 
beautiful  stories.  And  though  no  pains  were  spared  to 
indoctrinate  me,  and  all  my  pastors  and  masters  took  it  for 
granted  that  my  ideas  were  quite  satisfactory,  nothing  couM 
be  more  confused  and  heterodox. 

It  is  a  common  observation  that  girls  of  lively  talents  are 
apt  to  grow  pert  and  satirical.  I  fell  into  this  danger  when 


A   REVELATION  OF   CHILDHOOD.  85 

about  ten  years  old.  Sallies  at  the  expense  of  certain  peo- 
ple, ill-looking,  or  ill-dressed,  or  ridiculous,  or  foolish,  had 
been  laughed  at  and  applauded  in  company,  until,  -without 
being  naturally  malignant,  I  ran  some  risk  of  becoming  so 
from  sheer  vanity. 

The  fables  which  appeal  to  our  higher  moral  sympathies 
may  sometimes  do  as  much  for  us  as  the  truths  of  science. 
So  thought  our  Saviour  when  he  taught  the  multitude  in 
parables. 

A  good  clergyman  who  lived  near  us,  a  famous  Persian 
scholar,  took  it  into  his  head  to  teach  me  Persian,  (I  was 
then  about  seven  years  old,)  and  I  set  to  work  with  infinite 
delight  and.  earnestness.  All  I  learned  was  soon  forgotten ; 
but  a  few  years  afterwards,  happening  to  stumble  on  a 
volume  of  Sir  William  Jones's  works,  —  his  Persian  gram- 
mar, —  it  revived  my  Orientalism,  and  I  began  to  study  it 
eagerly.  Among  the  exercises  given  was  a  Persian  fable 
or  poem,  —  one  of  those  traditions  of  our  Lord  which  are 
preserved  in  the  East.  The  beautiful  apologue  of  "  St. 
Peter  and  the  Cherries,"  which  Goethe  has  versified  or 
imitated,  is  a  well-known  example.  This  fable  I  allude  to 
was  something  similar,  but  I  have  not  met  with  the  original 
these  forty  years,  and  must  give  it  here  from  memory. 

"  Jesus,"  says  the  story,  "  arrived  one  evening  at  the 
gates  of  a  certain  city,  and  he  sent  his  disciples  forward  to 
prepare  supper,  while  he  himself,  intent  on  doing  good, 
walked  through  the  streets  into  the  market-place. 

"  And  he  saw  at  the  corner  of  the  market  some  people 
gathered  together  looking  at  an  object  on  the  ground ;  and 
he  drew  near  to  see  what  it  might  be.  It  was  a  dead  dog, 
with  a  halter  round  his  neck,  by  which  he  appeared  to  have 
been  dragged  through  the  dirt ;  and  a  viler,  a  more  abject, 
a  more  unclean  thing  never  met  the  eyes  of  man. 

"  And  those  who  stood  by  looked  on  with  abhorrence- 


86  MRS.  JAMESON. 

" l  Faugh  ! '  said  one,  stopping  his  nose  ;  '  it  pollutes  the 
air.'  *  How  long,'  said  another,  '  shall  this  foul  beast  offend 
our  sight  ? '  '  Look  at  his  torn  hide/  said  a  third ;  '  one 
could  not  even  cut  a  shoe  out  of  it.'  '  And  his  ears/  said  a 
fourth,  '  all  draggled  and  bleeding ! '  '  No  doubt,'  said  a 
fifth,  « he  hath  been  hanged  for  thieving ! ' 

"  And  Jesus  heard  them,  and  looking  down  compas- 
sionately on  the  dead  creature,  he  said,  *  Pearls  are  not 
equal  to  the  whiteness  of  his  teeth ! ' 

"  Then  the  people  turned  towards  him  with  amazement, 
and  said  among  themselves,  '  Who  is  this  ?  this  must  be 
Jesus  of  Nazareth,  for  only  HE  could  find  something  to  pity 
and  approve  even  in  a  dead  dog ' ;  and  being  ashamed,  they 
bowed  their  heads  before  him,  and  went  each  on  his  way." 

I  can  recall,  at  this  hour,  the  vivid,  yet  softening  and 
pathetic  impression  left  on  my  fancy  by  this  old  Eastern 
story.  It  struck  me  as  exquisitely  humorous,  as  well  as 
exquisitely  beautiful.  It  gave  me  a  pain  in  my  conscience, 
for  it  seemed  thenceforward  so  easy  and  so  vulgar  to  say 
satirical  things,  and  so  much  nobler  to  be  benign  and 
merciful,  and  I  took  the  lesson  so  home,  that  I  was  in  great 
danger  of  falling  into  the  opposite  extreme,  —  of  seeking 
the  beautiful  even  in  the  midst  of  the  corrupt  and  the 
repulsive.  Pity,  a  large  element  in  my  composition,  might 
nave  easily  degenerated  into  weakness,  threatening  to  sub- 
vert hatred  of  evil  in  trying  to  find  excuses  for  it ;  and 
whether  my  mind  has  ever  completely  righted  itself,  I  am 
not  sure. 

Educators  are  not  always  aware,  I  think,  how  acute  are 
the  perceptions,  and  how  permanent  the  memories  of  chil- 
dren. I  remember  experiments  tried  upon  my  temper  and 
feelings,  and  how  I  was  made  aware  of  this,  by  their  being 
repeated,  and,  in  some  instances,  spoken  of,  before  me. 
Music,  to  which  I  was  early  and  peculiarly  sensitive,  was 


A  REVELATION  OF   CHILDHOOD.  87 

sometimes  made  the  medium  of  these  experiments.  Dis- 
cordant sounds  were  not  only  hateful,  but  made  me  turn 
white  and  cold,  and  sent  the  blood  backward  to  my  heart ; 
and  certain  tunes  had  a  curious  effect,  I  cannot  now  ac- 
count for :  for  though,  when  heard  for  the  first  time,  they 
had  little  effect,  they  became  intolerable  by  repetition  ;  they 
turned  up  some  hidden  emotion  within  me  too  strong  to  be 
borne.  It  could  not  have  been  from  association,  which  I 
believe  to  be  a  principal  element  in  the  emotion  excited  by 
music.  I  was  too  young  for  that.  What  associations  could 
such  a  baby  have  had  with  pleasure  or  with  pain  ?  Or 
could  it  be  possible  that  associations  with  some  former  state 
of  existence  awoke  up  to  sound  ?  That  our  life  "  hath 
elsewhere  its  beginning,  and  cometh  from  afar,"  is  a  belief, 
or  at  least  an  instinct,  in  some  minds,  which  music,  and  only 
music,  seems  to  thrill  into  consciousness.  At  this  time, 
when  I  was  about  five  or  six  years  old,  Mrs.  Arkwright,  — 
she  was  then  Fanny  Kemble,  —  used  to  come  to  our  house, 
and  used  to  entrance  me  with  her  singing.  I  had  a  sort  of 
adoration  for  her,  such  as  an  ecstatic  votary  might  have  for 
a  Saint  Cecilia.  I  trembled  with  pleasure,  when  I  only 
heard  her  step.  But  her  voice  !  —  it  has  charmed  hundreds 
since  ;  whom  has  it  ever  moved  to  a  more  genuine  passion 
of  delight  than  the  little  child  that  crept  silent  and  tremu- 
lous to  her  side  ?  And  she  was  fond  of  me,  —  fond  of  sing- 
ing to  me,  and,  it  must  be  confessed,  fond  also  of  playing 
these  experiments  on  me.  The  music  of  "  Paul  and  Vir- 
ginia "  was  then  in  vogue,  and  there  was  one  air  —  a  very 
simple  air  —  in  that  opera,  which,  after  the  first  few  bars, 
always  made  me  stop  my  ears  and  rush  out  of  the  room. 
I  became  at  last  aware  that  this  was  sometimes  done  by 
particular  desire  to  please  my  parents,  or  amuse  and  inter- 
est others  by  the  display  of  such  vehement  emotion.  My 
infant  conscience  became  perplexed  between  the  reality  of 
the  feeling  and  the  exhibition  of  it.  People  are  not  always 


88  MRS.  JAMESON. 

aware  of  the  injury  done  to  children  by  repeating  before 
them  things  they  say,  or  describing  things  they  do :  words 
and  actions,  spontaneous  and  unconscious,  become  thence- 
forth artificial  and  conscious.  I  can  speak  of  the  injury 
done  to  myself,  between  five  and  eight  years  old.  There 
was  some  danger  of  my  becoming  a  precocious  actress,  — 
danger  of  permanent  mischief  such  as  I  have  seen  done  to 
other  children,  —  but  I  was  saved  by  the  recoil  of  resistance 
and  resentment  excited  in  my  mind. 

This  is  enough.     All  that  has  been  told  here  refers  to  a 
period  between  five  and  ten  years  old. 


TO  MONTAGUE, 

AT  THIRTY-THREE. 

BY  CHARLES   SPRAGUE. 

ONO,  1 11  not  forget  the  day,  — 
It  claims,  at  least,  a  hallowed  hour 
A  sparkling  cup,  an  honest  lay, 

Sacred  to  Friendship's  soothing  power. 

% 
*T  is  not  all  ice,  this  heart  of  mine,  — 

One  throb  is  warm  and  youthful  still ; 
That  throb,  dear  MONTAGUE,  is  thine, 
Nor  age  nor  grief  that  throb  can  chill. 

How  often  sung,  and  yet  how  sweet 

To  dwell  upon  the  days  of  old  ! 
Our  guiltless  pleasures  to  repeat, 

Ere  in  the  world  our  hearts  grew  cold ! 

Fond  memory  wakes  !  each  pulse  beats  high  { 
Like  some  sweet  tale  past  joys  come  o'er, 

The  years  of  ruin  backward  fly, 

And  I  am  young  and  gay  once  more. 

Friend  of  my  soul !  in  this  poor  verse 

Let  one  untutored  tribute  live  ; 
Here  let  my  tongue  my  love  rehearse  ; 

T  is  all,  alas !  I  have  to  give 


90  CHARLES  SPRAGUE. 

O,  if  from  time's  wide-yawning  grave 
There 's  aught  of  mine  that  I  could  free, 

One  line  from  dull  oblivion  save, 

T  would  be  the  line  that  tells  of  thee. 

Though  to  the  busy  world  unknown 
Each  noble  act  that  shrinks  from  fame, 

Goodness  its  favorite  son  shall  own, 
And  orphan  lips  shall  bless  his  name. 

Thou  'rt  the  small  stream,  that  silent  goes, 
By  earth's  cold,  plodding  crowd  unseen,  — 

Yet,  all  unnoticed  though  it  flows, 
Its  banks  are  clothed  in  living  green. 

We  met  in  that  bright,  sunny  time,        ^ 
When  every  scene  was  fresh  around, 

And  youth's  warm  hour  and  manhood's  prime 
Have  blessed  the  tie  that  boyhood  bound. 

Though  oft  of  valued  friends  bereft, 

I  bend,  submissive,  to  the  doom ; 
For  thou,  the  best,  the  best,  art  left, 

To  cheer  my  journey  to  the  tomb. 

And  now,  the  dear  ones  ot  our  race 
Have  come  to  live  our  pleasures  o'er ; 

A  lovely  troop,  to  fill  our  place, 

And  weep  for  us  when  we  're  no  more. 

Ever,  O  ever  may  they  keep 

The  holy  chain  of  friendship  bright, 

Till,  rich  in  all  that 's  good,  they  sleep 

With  us  through  death's  long,  dreamless  night. 


THE  MAN-HUNTER. 


BY  BARRY   CORNWALL. 


IT  can  scarcely  be  more  than  eighteen  months  ago,  that 
two  Englishmen  met  together  unexpectedly  at  the  little 
town  or  city  of  Dessau.  The  elder  was  a  grave  person,  in 
no  way  remarkable;  but  the  younger  forced  observation 
upon  him.  He  was  a  tall,  gaunt,  bony  figure,  presenting  the 
relics  of  a  formidable  man,  but  seemingly  worn  with  travel 
and  oppressed  by  weighty  thoughts.  He  must  once  have 
been  handsome  ;  and  he  was  even  now  imposing.  But  pov- 
erty and  toil  are  sad  enemies  to  human  beauty ;  and  he  had 
endured  both.  Nevertheless,  the  black  and  ragged  elf-locks 
which  fell  about  his  face  could  not  quite  conceal  its  noble 
proportions  ;  and,  although  his  cheek  was  ghastly  and  macer- 
ated, (perhaps  by  famine,)  there  was  a  wild,  deep-seated 
splendor  glowing  in  his  eye,  such  as  we  are  apt  to  ascribe 
to  the  poet  when  his  frenzy  is  full  upon  him,  or  to  the 
madman  when  he  dreams  of  vengeance. 

The  usual  salutations  of  friends  passed  between  them, 
and  they  conversed  for  a  short  time  on  indifferent  subjects  ; 
the  elder,  as  he  spoke,  scrutinizing  the  condition  of  his  ac- 
quaintance, and  the  other  glancing  about  from  time  to  time, 
with  restless,  watchful  eyes,  as  though  he  feared  some  one 
might  escape  his  observation,  or  else  might  detect  himself. 
The  name  of  the  elder  of  these  men  was  Denbigh :  that 
of  the  voun^er  has  not  reached  me.  "We  will  call  him 


92  BARRY   CORNWALL. 

Gordon.  It  was  the  curiosity  of  the  first-mentioned  that. 
after  a  reasonable  period,  broke  out  into  inquiry.  (They 
were  just  entering  the  public  room  of  the  Black  Eagle  at 
Dessau.) 

"But  what  has  brought  you  here?"  said  he.  "I  left 
you  plodding  at  a  merchant's  desk,  with  barely  the  means 
of  living.  Though  a  friend,  you  would  never  let  mo 
please  myself  by  lending  you  money ;  nor  would  you  be 
my  companion  down  the  Rhine,  some  three  years  ago. 
You  professed  to  hate  travelling.  Yet  I  find  you  here,  — 
a  traveller  evidently,  with  few  comforts.  Come,  be  plain 
with  me.  Tell  me,  —  what  has  brought  you  hither  ?  Or 
rather  what  has  withered  and  wasted  you,  and  made  your 
hair  so  gray?  You  are  grown  quite  an  old  man." 

"  Ay,"  replied  Gordon ;  "  I  am  old,  as  you  say,  old 
enough.  Winter  is  upon  me,  on  my  head,  on  my  heart  ; 
both  are  frozen  up.  Do  you  wish  to  know  what  brought 
me  here  ?  Well,  you  have  a  right  to  know ;  and  you  shall 
be  told.  You  shall  hear  —  a  tale." 

"  A  true  one  ?  "  inquired  Denbigh,  smilingly. 

"  True ! "  echoed  the  other ;  "  ay,  as  true  as  hell,  as 
dark,  as  damnable,  —  but  peace,  peace  ! "  said  he,  checking 
himself  for  a  moment,  and  then  proceeding  in  a  hoarse, 
whispering,  vehement  voice,  —  "  all  that  in  time.  We  must 
begin  quietly,  —  quietly.  Come,  let  us  drink  some  wine, 
and  you  shall  see  presently  what  a  calm  historian  I  am." 

Wine,  together  with  some  more  solid  refreshments,  were 
accordingly  ordered.  Gordon  did  not  taste  the  latter,  but 
swallowed  a  draught  or  two  of  the  bold  liquid,  which 
soemed  to  still  his  nerves  like  an  opiate.  He  composed 
himself,  and  indeed  appeared  disposed  to  forget  that  there 
was  such  a  thing  as  trouble  in  the  world,  until  the  impa- 
tience of  his  friend  (which  vented  itself  in  the  shape  of 
various  leading  questions)  induced  him  to  summon  up  his 
recollections.  He  compressed  his  lips  together  for  a  mo- 


THE   MAN-HUNTER.  93 

inent,  and  drew  a  short,  deep  breath,  through  his  inflated 
nostrils ;  but  otherwise  there  was  no  preface  or  introduction 
to  his  story,  which  commenced  nearly,  if  not  precisely,  in 
the  following  words  :  — 

"About  three  years  ago,  a  young  girl  was  brought  to 
one  of  those  charitable  institutions  in  the  neighborhood  of 
London,  where  the  wretched  (the  sinful  and  the  destitute) 
find  refuge  and  consolation.  She  was,  you  may  believe  me, 
beautiful ;  so  beautiful,  so  delicate,  and,  as  I  have  said,  so 
young,  that  she  extorted  a  burst  of  pity  and  admiration 
from  people  long  inured  to  look  upon  calamity. 

"  She  was  attended  by  her  mother,  —  a  widow.  This 
woman  differed  from  her  child ;  not  merely  in  age  or 
feature.  She  was,  in  comparison,  masculine ;  her  face  was 
stern ;  her  frame  strong  and  enduring ;  she  looked  as 
though  hunger  and  shame  had  been  busy  with  her,  —  as 
though  she  had  survived  the  loss  of  all  tilings,  and  passed 
the  extreme  limits  of  human  woe.  Once  —  for  I  knew 
her  —  she  would  have  disdained  to  ask  even  for  pity.  O, 
what  she  must  have  borne,  in  body,  in  mind,  before  she 
could  have  brought  herself  to  become  a  suppliant  there ! 
Yet  there  she  was,  —  she,  and  her  youngest  born  in  her 
hand,  beggars.  She  presented  her  child  to  the  patronesses 
of  the  institution ;  and,  with  an  unbroken  voice,  prayed 
them  to  take  her  in  for  refuge. 

"  The  common  questions  were  asked,  the  who,  the  whence, 
the  wherefore,  &c.  Even  something  more  than  common 
curiosity  displayed  itself  in  the  inquiries,  and  all  was  an- 
swered with  an  unflinching  spirit.  The  mother's  story  was 
sad  enough.  Let  us  hope  that  such  things  are  rare  in 
England.  She  was  the  widow  of  a  military  man,  an  officer 
of  courage  and  conduct,  who  died  in  battle.  If  we  could 
live  upon  laurels,  his  family  need  not  have  starved.  But 
the  laurel  is  a  poisonous  tree.  It  is  gay  and  shining,  and 
undecaying ;  but  whoso  tasteth  it  dies !  Xo  mattei  now* 


94  BARRY   CORNWALL. 

The  widow  and  three  children  were  left  almost  without 
money.  The  father  had  indeed  possessed  some  little  prop- 
erty ;  but  it  consisted  of  bonds,  or  notes,  or  securities  of  a 
transferable  nature ;  and  was  intrusted  (without  receipt  or 
acknowledgment)  to  —  a  villain.  The  depositary  used  it 
for  his  own  purposes ;  denied  his  trust ;  and,  with  the  cold- 
ness of  a  modern  philosopher,  saw  his  victims  thrust  out  of 
doors,  to  starve  !  A  good  Samaritan  gave  them  bread  and 
employment  for  a  few  weeks  ;  but  he  died  suddenly,  and 
they  were  again  at  the  mercy  of  fortune. 

»*  It  was  now  that  the  mother  felt  that  her  children  looked 
up  to  her  for  life.  And  she  answered  the  appeal  as  a 
mother  only  can.  She  toiled  to  the  very  utmost  of  her 
strength :  nothing  was  too  much,  nothing  too  base  or  menial 
for  her.  She  worked,  and  watched,  and  endured  all  tilings, 
from  all  persons ;  and  thus  it  was  that  she  obtained  coarse 
food  for  her  young  ones,  —  sometimes  even  enough  to  sat- 
isfy their  hunger ;  till  at  last  the  eldest  boy  became  useful, 
and  began  to  earn  money  also ;  and  then  they  were  able 
almost  daily  to  taste  —  bread !  It  is  a  wonder  how  they 
lived,  —  how  they  shunned  the  vices  and  squalid  evils  which 
beset  the  poor.  But  they  did  so.  They  withstood  all 
temptations.  They  felt  no  envy  nor  hatred  for  the  great 
and  fortunate.  The  sordid  errors  of  their  station  never 
fastened  on  them.  They  grew  up  honest,  liberal-minded, 
courageous.  They  wanted  not  even  for  learning,  or  at 
least  knowledge.  For,  after  a  time,  a  few  cheap  books 
were  bought  or  borrowed,  and  the  ambition  which  the 
mother  taught  them  to  feel  served  the  boys  in  place  uf 
instructors.  They  read  and  studied.  After  working  all 
day,  (running  on  errands,  hewing  wood,  and  drawing  water,) 
these  children  of  a  noble  mother  sat  down  to  gather  learn- 
ing; never  disobeying,  never  murmuring  to  do  what  she, 
to  whom  they  owed  all  things,  commanded  them  to  achieve. 
Yet,  little  merit  is  due  to  them.  It  was  she,  the  incompar- 


THE  MAN-HUNTER.  95 

able  mother,  who  did  all ;  saved,  supported,  endured  all 
for  her  children's  sake,  for  her  dead  husband's  sake,  and  for 
the  disinterested  love  of  virtue! 

"  I  know  not  what  frightful  crimes  some  progenitor  might 
have  committed,  what  curse  he  might  have  brought  upon 
this  race ;  but  if  none,  in  the  name  of  God's  mercy,  why, 
(when  they  had  been  steeped  in  baseness  and  po^  erty  to  the 
lips,)  why  was  a  curse  more  horrible  than  all  to  come  upon 
them  ?  Poor  creatures  !  had  they  not  endured  enough  ? 
TThat  is  the  axe  or  the  gibbet  to  the  daily  never-dying  pain 
which  a  mother  feels  who  sees  her  children  famishing  away 
before  her  ?  Sickness,  cold,  hunger,  the  contempt  of  friends, 
the  hate  or  indifference  of  all  the  world  besides,  the  perpet- 
ual heart-breaking  toil  and  struggle  to  live  !  to  get  bread, 
yet  often  want  it !  Was  not  all  enough  ?  I  suppose  not ; 
for  a  curse  greater  than  all  fell  upon  them. 

"  A  friend,  —  ha,  ha,  ha  !  —  let  me  use  common  words,  — 
a  friend  of  the  elder  son  (who  had,  by  degrees,  risen  to  be 
a  manufacturer's  clerk),  visited  them  at  their  humble  abode. 
He  was  rich,  he  was,  moreover,  a  specious  youth,  fair  and 
florid,  —  such  as  young  girls  fancy  ;  but  as  utterly  hard  and 
impenetrable  to  every  touch  of  honor  or  pity  as  the  stone 
we  tread  upon.  He  —  I  must  make  short  work  of  this 
part  of  my  story  —  he  loved  the  young  sister  of  his  friend, 
or  rather  he  sought  her  with  the  brutal  appetite  of  an  ani- 
mal. He  talked,  and  smiled,  and  flattered  her,  —  (she  was 
a  weak  thing,  and  his  mummery  pleased  her)  :  he  brought 
presents  to  her  mother,  and,  at  last,  ruin  and  shame  upon 
herself.  She  was  so  young,  —  not  fifteen  years  of  age ! 
But  this  base  and  hellish  slave  had  no  mercy  on  her  inno- 
cent youth,  no  respect  for  her  desolate  condition.  He 
ruined  her  —  0,  there  were  horrid  circumstances  !  —  force, 
and  fraud,  and  cruelty  of  all  kinds,  that  I  will  not  touch 
upon.  It  is  sufficient  to  say  that  her  destruction  was 
achieved,  and  all  her  family  In  his  power.  The  child 


9G  BARRY   CORNWALL. 

(herself  now  about  to  be  a  mother)  meditated  death.  She 
was  timid,  however,  and  shrank  from  the  vague  and  gloomy 
terrors  of  the  grave.  So  she  lived  on,  pale  and  humbled, 
uttering  no  complaint,  and  disclosing  no  disgrace,  until 
her  mother  noticed  her  despondency,  and  reproached  her 
for  it.  With  a  trembling  heart  —  trembling  at  she  knew 
not  what  —  she  inquired  solemnly  the  cause  of  all  this 
woe.  The  girl  could  not  stand  those  piercing  looks.  The 
mother  whom  she  had  obeyed,  not  only  with  love,  but  in 
fear  also,  commanded  a  disclosure,  and  the  poor  victim 
sunk  on  her  knees  before  her.  She  told  her  sad  story 
with  sobs  and  streaming  eyes,  and  with  her  figure  abased 
to  absolute  prostration.  Her  parent  listened  (she  would 
rather  have  listened  to  her  own  death-warrant),  —  looked 
ghastly  at  her  for  a  minute,  and  reproached  her  no  more ! 
Some  accident,  —  some  intermission  of  employment,  (I  for- 
get what,)  made  it  impossible  to  support  the  poor  fallen 
child  with  proper  care.  This  inability  it  was,  joined  to  a 
wish  to  keep  her  shame  secret,  that  carried  the  mother 
and  daughter  to  the  charitable  place  of  which  I  have 
spoken.  And  there  the  child  was  deposited,  under  a 
feigned  name,  to  undergo  the  pangs  of  childbirth. 

"  But  the  sons !  Do  you  not  ask,  where  are  they  ?  Ha, 
ha !  I  am  coming  to  that.  They  knew  nothing,  —  sus- 
pected nothing,  till  all  the  mother's  plans  were  effected ; 
and  then,  with  a  gloomy  countenance,  and  a  voice  troubled 
to  its  depths  with  many  griefs,  she  told  them  —  ALL." 

"  How  did  they  bear  it  ?  What  did  they  say  or  do  ?  " 
inquired  Denbigh,  breaking  silence  for  the  first  time  since 
the  commencement  of  the  story.  Gordon  answered  :  — 

"  Her  communication  was,  at  first,  absolutely  unintelli- 
gible. It  was  so  sudden,  and  so  utterly  unsuspected,  thai 
it  bore  the  character  of  a  dream  or  a  fable.  They  stood 
bewildered.  But  when  the  truth,  —  the  real,  bad,  terrible 
truth  became  plain,  —  when  it  was  repeated  with  more 


THE  MAX-HUXTER.  97 

particulars,  and  made  frightfully  distinct,  —  the  eldest  son 
burst  into  a  rage  of  words.  The  younger,  a  youth  of 
more  concentrated  passions,  started  up,  opened  his  mouth 
as  though  he  would  utter  some  curse ;  but  instantly  fell 
dead  on  the  floor." 

"  Good  G — d !  "  interrupted  Denbigh  again,  "  and  did  he 
die  ?  " 

"  No,"  replied  the  other,  "  he  but  appeared  to  die.  Did 
I  say  '  dead '  ?  No  ;  I  was  wrong.  He  was  not  irrecov- 
erably dead.  By  prompt  help  he  was  revived.  In  the 
struggle  between  life  and  death  blood  burst  from  his 
mouth  and  from  his  nose,  and  he  felt  easier.  Perhaps 
the  oath  which  he  at  that  moment  was  prescribing  to 
himself — the  fierce,  implacable,  unalterable  determination 
which  his  soul  was  forming  —  tranquillized  his  spirit;  for 
he  awoke  to  apparent  calmness,  and  expressed  himself 
resigned.  But  he  was  not  so  to  be  satisfied.  Patience,  — 
resignation,  —  forgiveness,  —  these  are  good  words:  they 
are  virtues,  perhaps ;  but  they  were  not  his.  He  was  of 
a  fiery  spirit  —  " 

"  Like  yourself,"  said  Denbigh,  trying  to  smile  away 
the  painful  impression  which  the  story  was  producing  on 
his  mind. 

"  Ay,  like  myself,  sir,"  was  the  fierce  answer.  "  He 
thought  that  vengeance,  where  punishment  was  manifestly 
due,  was  scarcely  the  shadow  of  a  crime  ;  and  /  think  so 
too.  He  swore,  silently,  but  solemnly,  (and  invoked  all 
Heaven  and  Hell  to  attest  his  oath,)  that  he  would  thence- 
forward have  but  one  object,  one  ambition  ;  and  this  was  — 
REVENGE  !  He  swore  to  take  the  blood  of  the  betrayer, 
and  — he  did." 

"  When  ?  where  ?  "  asked  Denbigh,  quicldy. 

"  Let  us  take  some  wine,"  said  Gordon  ;  "  I  am  speaking 
now,"  continued  he,  after  he  had  drunk,  "  of  what  must  be. 
The  future  is  not  yet  come.  But  as  sure  as  I  see  you  be- 


98  BARRY  CORNWALL. 

fore  me,  so  surely  do  I  see  the  consummation  of  this  re- 
venge. There  is  a  fate  in  some  things  :  there  is  one  in  this 
Do  you  remember  the  story  of  the  Spaniard  Aguirra  ?  " 

"  No !  "  answered  the  other. 

"  Yet,  it  is  well  known,  —  it  is  true,  —  it  is  memorable, 
and  it  deserves  to  be  remembered ;  for  (except  in  the  one 
instance  of  which  I  now  speak)  it  stands  alone  in  the  cata- 
logue of  extraordinary  events.  You  shall  hear  it  presently, 
if  it  be  only  to  rescue,  by  a  parallel  case,  my  story  from  the 
character  of  a  fiction.  At  present,  let  it  suffice  to  say,  that 
sure  as  was  Aguirra's  vengeance,  so  sure  shall  be  —  MINE  !  " 

"  Yours  !  "  exclaimed  Denbigh,  "  do  I  hear  aright  ?  " 

"  Ay,  open  your  ears  wide.  I  am  the  Revenger !  My 
family  it  is  who  owe  Fortune  so  little,  —  to  whom  vengeance 
owes  so  much  !  My  mother  and  her  famished  brood  it  was 
of  whose  sufferings  I  have  spoken,  and  whose  injuries  I  am 
destined  to  revenge." 

"  But  the  villain  —  ?  "  inquired  Denbigh. 

"  You  do  well  to  bring  me  back  to  him.  Yet  think  not 
that  I  for  a  moment  forget  him.  He  fled  when  he  knew,  — 
nay,  before  he  knew,  —  when  he  but  surmised  that  we  had 
discovered  his  villany.  He  collected  money  together,  and 
left  his  country.  But  I  was  soon  upon  his  track.  I  too  had 
gathered  some  hard  earnings,  and  my  brother  more  ;  and 
with  these  united,  I  commenced  a  desperate  pursuit.  I  will 
not  weary  you  by  recounting  the  many  difficulties  of  my  task ; 
how  many  thousand  miles  I  have  journeyed  barefoot,  with 
little  clothing,  with  less  food  (for  I  was  forced  to  economize 
my  poor  means)  ;  how  for  three  years  I  have  been  generally 
a  beggar  for  my  bread,  a  companion  with  the  unsheltered 
dog ;  how  I  have  been  wounded,  robbed,  and  even  once  im- 
prisoned. That  fortunately  was  but  for  a  day,  or  it  might 
have  overthrown  my  plans  of  vengeance.  Thanks  to  the 
furies,  it  did  not ;  I  followed  him,  —  over  all  countries,  from 
Moscow  to  Madrid,  from  the  Baltic  to  the  Carpathians,  He 


THE  MAN-HUNTER.  99 

fled  with  a  sense,  with  a  knowledge,  that  I  was  forever  on  his 
track.  He  slept  trebly  armed,  locked  in  and  barred  from  all 
access.  He  has  been  known  to  rise  at  night,  and  take  flight 
for  a  distant  land.  But,  with  the  unerring  sense  of  a  blood- 
hound, I  was  always  after  him.  I  was  sure  of  him.  He 
never  escaped  me.  No  disguise,  no  swiftness  of  journeying, 
no  digressions  from  the  ordinary  path,  no  doubles,  nor  turn- 
ings, nor  common  feints,  such  as  the  hunted  beast  resorts  to 
in  his  despair,  availed  him.  Wherever  he  was  —  there  was 
I!  not  so  soon  perhaps,  but  quite  as  surely. 

"  Twenty  times  I  have  been  near  meeting  him  alone,  and 
consummating  my  purpose.  But  one  thing  or  other  perpet- 
ually intervened.  A  casual  blow,  without  the  certainty  of 
its  being  fatal,  would  have  been  nothing.  He  might  have 
recovered,  —  he  might  have  lived  to  see  me  proclaimed  a 
malefactor,  and  have  borne  evidence  against  me  ;  and  then 
he  would  have  triumphed,  and  not  I.  I  resolved  to  make 
surer  work ;  to  see  that  he  should  die  ;  and  for  myself,  I 
determined  to  live,  for  some  time  at  least,  in  order  to  en- 
joy the  remembrance  of  having  accomplished  one  deed  of 
justice. 

"  I  said  that  I  would  not  weary  you  with  a  narrative  of 
my  travels  and  a  repetition  of  my  failures.  But  one  adven- 
ture amongst  many  occurs  to  me,  somewhat  differing  from 
the  rest,  and  you  shall  hear  it.  One  of  my  transits  was  across 
the  whole  face  of  Europe ;  from  an  obscure  town  in  Flan- 
ders to  the  Porte.  I  had  scarcely  reached  the  Fanar 
(where  I  was  housed  by  a  Greek,  whom  I  had  served  in  an 
accidental  affray),  when  I  fell  sick  of  a  fiery  distemper,  — 
some  plague  or  fever  begot  in  those  burning  regions,  which 
sometimes  destroys  the  native  and  almost  always  the  luckless 
stranger.  In  my  extremity,  my  kind  hosts  sent  for  a  physi- 
cian, —  a,  converted  Jew.  He  came  and  heard  my  ravings, 
and  let  tne  sickness  deal  with  me  as  it  chose.  Some  words, 
however,  which  I  threw  out  in  my  delirium  (at  his  second 


100  BARRY  CORNWALL. 

visit)  excited  his  curiosity  ;  and  coming,  as  they  d.d,  from  a 
Frank,  he  was  induced  to  communicate  them  to  an  English- 
man who  lodged  in  his  house.  This  Englishman  was  —  the 
fiend,  the  fugitive,  whom  I  had  chased  so  long  in  vain.  A 
few  words  and  a  lump  of  gold  concluded  a  bargain  ;  and 
the  next  time  the  scowling  Issachar  came  to  my  bedside,  he 
ordered  a  cup  of  coffee  for  his  patient.  I  had  at  that  time 
recovered  my  senses,  and  became  suddenly  and  sensitively 
awake  to  everything  about  me.  I  saw  the  renegade  take  a 
powder  from  his  vest,  and,  after  looking  round  to  see  that 
all  was  clear,  put  it,  with  a  peculiar  look,  into  the  cup.  '/£ 
is  poison,'  I  said  to  myself;  and  by  a  sudden  effort  (while 
the  Israelite's  back  was  turned),  I  forced  myself  upwards, 
and  sat,  like  a  corpse  revived,  awaiting  his  attention.  After 
he  had  drugged  the  draught,  he  turned  round  suddenly  and 
beheld  me.  There  I  was,  unable  to  speak  indeed,  but 
ghastly  and  as  white  as  stone,  threatening  and  grinning,  and 
chattering  unintelligible  sounds.  He  was  staggered;  but 
recovering  himself  with  a  smile,  he  tendered  the  detestable 
potion.  I  had  just  strength  enough  to  dash  it  out  of  his 
hand,  and  sank  on  the  bed  exhausted.  When  I  recovered  I 
found  myself  alone  ;  nor  did  I  ever  again  see  my  physician. 
"  I  do  not  complain  of  this.  Life  for  life  is  an  equal 
stake.  I  knew  the  game  which  I  was  playing.  Death  for 
one  or  both  of  us,  —  that  was  certain.  Quiet  for  him,  at  all 
events  (upon  the  earth  or  within  it)  ;  perhaps  revenge  for 
me.  I  was  not  angry  at  this  attempt  on  my  life.  I  liked  it 
better,  in  truth,  than  hunting  day  after  day,  week  after  week, 
a  flying,  timorous,  unresisting  wretch.  The  opposition,  the 
determination  he  evinced  to  strike  again,  spurred  me  on. 
It  afforded  a  relief  to  my  perpetual  disappointment ;  it 
checkered  the  miserable  monotony  of  my  life.  Sometimes  I 
had  almost  felt  compassion  for  my  harassed  and  terrified 
enemy,  and  generally  contempt.  But  now  —  an  adder  was 
before  me.  It  rose  up,  and  strove  to  use  its  fangs,  and  was 


THE  MAX-HUXTER.  101 

no  longer  to  be  trod  on  without  peril.  The?e  thoughts, 
strange  as  it  may  seem,  contributed  to  my  recovery.  I  grew 
tranquil  and  well  apace; 'and  when  I  was  fit  to  travel,  I 
found  that  my  foe  had  quitted  precipitately  the  banks  of  the 
Bosphorus. 

••  I  had  little  difficulty  in  learning  his  route ;  for  my 
Greek  had  his  national  subtilty,  and  did  not  spare  money  to 
set  rne  on  the  track.  The  Jew  doctor  (he  had  a  second 
bribe)  said  that  he  had  overheard  my  victim  bargaining 
with  a  Tartar  courier  to  conduct  him  to  Vienna.  Upon  this 
hint,  I  set  off  on  my  dreary  journey  through  the  Ottoman 
Empire  and  its  huge  provinces,  —  Roumelia,  Wallachia, 
Transylvanifu  I  traversed  the  great  uncultivated  plains  of 
Turkey ;  I  crossed  the  Balkan  and  the  muddy  Danube ; 
escaped  the  quarantine  of  the  Crapaks ;  and  finally  dis- 
mounted at  Vienna,  just  as  a  carriage  was  heard  thundering 
along  the  Presburg  road  containing  a  traveller  to  whom 
haste  was  evidently  of  the  last  importance.  'T  WAS  HE  ! 
I  saw  him ;  and  he  saw  me.  He  saw  me,  and  knew  in 
a  moment  that  all  his  toilsome  journey  was  once  more  in 
vain.  I  saw  him  grow  pale  before  me,  and  I  triumphed. 
Ha  !  ha  !  —  that  night  I  was  joyful.  I  ate,  and  drank,  and 
dreamt,  as  though  I  had  no  care  or  injury  upon  me.  The 
next  morning  I  looked  to  see  that  my  dagger  was  sharp, 
and  my  pistols  primed,  and  set  out  on  foot  to  decoy  my  foe 
into  a  quiet  place,  fit  for  the  completion  of  my  purpose. 
But  I  failed,  as  I  had  failed  often  before.  I  beset  him,  I 
tried  to  surprise  him ;  I  kept  him  in  incessant  alarm ;  but 
the  end  was  still  the  same.  He  was  still  destined  to  escape 
me,  and  I  to  remain  his  pursuer. 

"  How  it  was  that  he  retained  his  senses,  that  he  had  still 
spring  of  mind  to  fly  and  hope  to  escape  pursuit,  is  a 
mystery  to  me.  I  have  often  wondered  that  he  did  not 
bare  his  throat  before  me,  and  end  his  misery ;  as  those  who 
grow  dizzy  on  a  precipice,  cast  themselves  from  it,  and  find 


102  BARRY   CORNWALL. 

refuge  from  their  intolerable  fears  —  in  death.  But  no  ;  his 
love  of  life,  his  fear  (caused  by  that  love  of  life),  were  so 
great,  so  insuperable,  that  they  never  seemed  capable,  as  in 
ordinary  cases,  of  sinking  into  indifference  or  despair.  He 
had  no  moral,  no  intellectual  qualities,  no  courage  of  any 
sort.  Yet  by  his  fear  alone,  he  became  at  times  absolutely 
terrific.  His  struggles,  his  holding  on  to  life,  (when  nothing 
was  left  worth  living  for,)  his  sleepless,  ceaseless  activity 
in  flight,  assumed  a  serious  and  even  awful  character.  He 
pursued  his  purpose  as  steadily  and  as  unflinchingly  a*  I 
pursued  mine.  Terror  never  stopped  him  ;  hope  never  for- 
sook him.  From  one  end  of  the  world  to  the  other  lie  fled 

—  backwards  and  forwards,  this  way,  and  that  —  he  fled, 
and  fled ;  not  dropping  from  apprehension,  like  the  dove  or 
the  wren ;  but  still  keeping  on  his  way,  like  some  fierce  bird 
of  prey,  who,  driven  from  one  region,  will  still  seek  another, 
and  another,  and  fight  it  out  to  the  last  extremity.     So 
frightful  have  been  his  struggles,  so  wild  and  fantastic  the 
character  of  his  fears,  that  once  or  twice,  I  —  (his  destroyer) 

—  I,  who  was  watching  him  with  an  ever-deadly  purpose, 
became  absolutely  daunted  and  oppressed.     I  resumed  my 
strength,  however,  speedily,  as  you  will  suppose  ;  for  what 
his  fear  was  to  him,  hate  or  revenge  was  to  me,  —  the  sole 
stirring  principle  of  life.     Oh !  this  accursed  wretch !  does 
he  ever  dream  that  I  relax  ?  —  that  toil,  and  destitution,  and 
danger  have  any  effect  upon  me  ?    He  shall  live  to  find  him- 
self in  error.     I  am  the  fate,  —  the  bloodhound  that  will  fol- 
low, and  must  find  him  at  last.     Let  me  give  up  the  contest 
at  once,  and  all  will  be  quiet ;  —  no  more  fear  for  him,  —  no 
more  sad  labors  for  me  !     Of  what  value  is  life  to  either  :f 
us  ?     But  yes,  —  to  me,  it  is  of  value  ;  for  I  have  a  deed  to 
do,  an  act  of  justice  to  perform  on  the  most  reckless  and 
heartless  villain  that  ever  disgraced  the  human  name." 

"  And  his  name,  what  is  that  ?  "  asked  Denbigh. 

"  Warne,  —  Warne,  —  the  brand  of  hell  be  on  him  !  " 


THE   MAN-HUNTER.  103 

•*  Hush !  do  not  speak  so  loud !  Look !  there  is  some 
one  in  yonder  box  who  has  heard  you,"  said  Denbigh  again, 
in  a  suppressed  tone. 

"  I  care  not,"  replied  the  other.  "  This  devil  who  walks 
in  human  shape,  and  under  the  name  of  Warne,  is  now  in 
this  city.  He  has  eluded  me  for  a  short  —  a  very  short 
time  —  by  shifting  his  course  and  changing  his  disguises. 
But  I  am  here,  and  shall  find  him,  wherever  he  lurks.  Be 
sure  of  it." 

At  this  moment  a  stranger  was  seen  stealing  from  a  box, 
where  he  had  been  taking  refreshment.  He  appeared  by 
his  walk  (for  the  two  speakers  saw  only  his  back)  to  be 
an  old  man.  ""He  said  nothing ;  but,  walking  up  towards  the 
end  of  the  room,  where  a  person  attached  to  the  inn  was 
standing,  put  a  piece  of  money  in  his  hand,  (evidently  more 
than  sufficient  to  discharge  his  bill.)  and  left  the  house. 

From  the  first  movement  of  the  stranger,  the  attention  of 
Gordon  was  upon  him:  his  neck  was  stretched  out,  his 
eyes  strained  and  wide  open ;  he  even  seemed  to  listen  to 
his  tread. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  said  Denbigh.  "  There  is  noth- 
ing but  an  old  man  there,  who  is  tottering  home  to  bed." 

Gordoi.  made  no  reply,  but  followed  the  person  alluded 
to  stealthily  from  the  house.  After  a  minute's  space,  Den- 
bigh saw  liim  again  hiding  behind  the  buttress  of  a  building 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street.  He  was  evidently  watch- 
ing the  stranger  He  did  not  continue  long,  however,  in 
this  situation,  but  stole  forwards  cautiously.  After  pro- 
ceeding a  short  distance,  he  turned,  and  followed  the  wind- 
ings of  a  street  or  road  that  intersected  the  principal  street 
of  the  town,  and  finally  disappeared. 

Denbigh  never  saw  him  again.  Three  or  four  days 
afterwards,  the  body  of  an  unknown  man  was  found  in  a 
copse  near  the  city  of  Dessau.  It  was  pierced  with  wounds, 
and  disfigured,  and  the  clothes  were  much  torn,  as  in  a 


104  BARRY   CORNWALL. 

Struggle.  From  one  hand  (which  remained  clasped)  some 
fragments  of  dress,  coarser  than  what  belonged  to  the  body, 
were  forced  with  dilliculty  ;  but  they  did  not  lead  to  drier- 
tioii.  The  stranger  w:is  buried,  and  as  much  inquiry  mad*1, 
respecting  him  as  is  usual  i'or  persons  for  whom  no  one  feel* 
an  interest.  His  murderer  never  was  discovered.  Denbigh 
left  the  place  immediately  that  the  inquisition  was  over. 
Ik1  did  not  volunteer  his  evidence  upon  the  occasion.  His 
natural  love  of  justice,  and  perceptions  of  right,  were  pel 
haps  obscured  by  his  affection  for  his  friend  ;  besides  which, 
nothing  that  he  could  have  said  upon  the  occasion  would 
have  exceeded  a  vague  suspicion  of  the  fact.  At  all  events, 
he  kept  (.onion's  secret,  until  he  deemed  that  it  was  not 
dangerous  to  disclose  it 

In  regard  to  Gordon  himself — he  was  never  more  heard 
of.  A  man,  indeed,  bearing  somewhat  of  his  appearance, 
was  afterwards  seen  in  the  newly-cleared  country  near  the 
Ohio;  but,  excepting  the  resemblance  that  he  bore  to  Den- 
bigh's friend,  and  a  certain  intelligence  beyond  his  situation 
(which  was  that  of  a  common  laborer),  there  was  nothing 
to  induce  a  belief  that  it  was  the  same  person.  Whoever 
he  might  be,  however,  even  he  too  now  has  disappeared. 
He  was  killed  accidentally,  while  felling  one  of  those  enor- 
mous hemlock-trees,  with  which  some  parts  of  the  great 
continent  abound.  A  shallow  grave  was  scooped  for  him  ; 
a  fellow-laborer's  prayer  was  his  only  requiem ;  and,  what- 
ever may  have  been  his  intellect,  whatever  his  passions  01 
strength  of  purpose,  the  frail  body  which  once  contained 
them  now  merely  fertilizes  the  glade  of  an  American  forest, 
or  else  has  become  food  for  the'  bear  or  the  jackal. 

[The  story  of  Aguirra,  referred  to  in  the  foregoing  nar- 
rative, occurs  in  one  of  our  early  periodical  works,  and  is  to 
the  following  effect :  Aguirra  was  a  Spanish  soldier,  under 
the  vommand  of  Esquivel,  governor  of  Lima  or  Potosi. 


THK  MAN-III-NIKR.  105 

For  some  small  cause,  or  for  no  cause,  (to  make  an  ex- 
ample, or  to  wro;ik  his  spite,)  this  governor  caused  Aguirra 
to  be  stripped  and  flogged.  He  received  some  hundred 
stripes  ;  his  remonstrances  (that  he  was  a  gentleman,  and  as 
such  exempt  by  law  from  such  disgrace,  and  that  what  he 
had  done  was  unimportant,  and  justified  by  common  usage) 
being  treated  with  contempt.  lie  endured  the  punishment 
in  the  presence  of  a  crowd  of  comrades  and  strangers,  and 
swore  (with  a  Spaniard's  spirit)  never  to  be  satisfied  but 
with  his  tyrant's  blood.  lie  waited  patiently,  until  Esquhel 
was  no  longer  governor ;  refusing  consolation,  and  declin- 
ing, from  fancied  unworthiness,  all  honorable  employment. 
But,  when  thje  governor  put  off  his  authority,  then  Aguirra 
commenced  his  revenge.  He  followed  his  victim  from 
place  to  place,  —  haunted  him  like  a  ghost,  —  and  filled 
him  (though  surrounded  by  friends  and  servants)  with  per- 
petual dread.  No  place,  no  distance,  could  stop  him.  He 
has  been  known  to  track  his  enemy  for  three,  four,  five 
hundred  leagues  at  a  time  !  He  continued  pursuing  him  for 
three  years  and  four  months ;  and  at  last,  after  a  journey 
of  five  hundred  leagues,  came  upon  him  suddenly  at  Cuzco ; 
found  him,  for  the  first  time,  without  his  guards,  and  in- 
stantly —  stabbed  him  to  the  heart ! 

Such  is  the  story  of  Aguirra.  It  is  believed  to  be  a  fact ; 
and  so  is  the  story  which  I  have  recounted  above.  The 
circumstances  are  not  only  curious  as  showing  a  strange 
coincidence,  but  they  show  also  what  a  powerful  effect  a 
narrative  of  this  kind  may  produce.  For  there  is  little 
doubt  but  that  the  South  American  tale,  although  it  may 
not  absolutely  have  generated  the  spirit  of  vengeance  in 
Gordon's  mind,  so  shaped  and  modified  it  as  to  stimulate 
his  flagging  animosity ;  carried  him  through  all  impedi- 
ments and  reverses  to  the  catastrophe ;  and  enabled  him 
to  exhibit  a  perseverance  that  is  to  be  paralleled  nowhere, 
except  perhaps  in  the  history  of  fanatics  or  martyrs.] 


THE    NORSEMAN. 

BY  GERALD   MASSEY. 


A  SWARTHY  strength  with  face  of  light, 
As  dark  sword-iron  is  beaten  bright ; 
A  brave,  frank  look,  with  health  aglow, 
Bonny  blue  eyes  and  open  brow ; 
His  friend  he  welcomes,  heart-in-hand, 
But  foot  to  foot  his  foe  must  stand  : 
A  Man  who  will  face,  to  his  last  breath, 
The  sternest  facts  of  life  and  death  : 

This  is  the  brave  old  Norseman. 

The  wild  wave-motion  weird  and  strange 
Rocks  in  him !  seaward  he  must  range  ; 
His  life  is  just  a  mighty  lust 
To  wear  away  with  use,  not  rust ! 
Though  bitter  wintry  cold  the  storm, 
The  fire  within  him  keeps  him  warm  : 
Kings  quiver  at  his  flag  unfurled, 
The  Sea-King  's  master  of  the  world  ! 

And  conquering  rides  the  Norseman. 

He  hides  at  heart  of  his  rough  life 
A  world  of  sweetness  for  the  Wife  : 
From  his  rude  breast  a  Babe  may  press 
Soft  milk  of  human  tenderness,  — 
Make  his  eyes  water,  his  heart  dance, 
And  sunrise  in  his  countenance : 


THE  NORSEMAN.  107 

In  merry  mood  his  ale  lie  quaffs 

By  firelight,  and  his  jolly  heart  laughs  : 

The  blithe,  great-hearted  Norseman. 

But  when  the  Battle  Trumpet  rings, 
His  soul 's  a  war-horse  clad  with  wings ! 
He  drinks  delight  in  with  the  breath 
Of  Battle  and  the  dust  of  death  : 
The  Axes  redden  ;  spring  the  sparks 
Blood-radiant  grow  the  gray  mail-sarks  ; 
Such  blows  might  batter,  as  they  fell, 
Heaven's  gates,  or  burst  the  booms  of  hell ! 
So  fights  the  fearless  Norseman. 

The  Norseman's  king  must  stand  up  tall, 
If  he  would  be  head  over  all ; 
Mainmast  of  Battle  !  when  the  plain 
Is  miry  red  with  bloody  rain  ! 
And  grip  his  weapon  for  the  fight, 
Until  his  knuckles  all  grow  white  ; 
Their  banner-staff  he  bears  is  best 
If  double  handful  for  the  rest : 

When  "  Follow  me ! "  cries  the  Norseiii-n. 

Valiant  and  true,  as  Sagas  tell, 
The  Norseman  hated  lies  like  hell ; 
Hardy  from  cradle  to  the  grave, 
'T  was  their  religion  to  be  brave : 
Great,  silent  fighting-men,  whose  words 
Were  few,  soon  said,  and  out  with  Swords  ! 
One  saw  his  heart  cut  from  his  side 
Living,  and  smiled ;  and  smiling,  died : 

The  unconquerable  Norseman. 

They  swam  the  flood ;  they  strode  in  flame  ; 
Nor  quailed  when  the  Valkyrie  came 


108  GERALD  MASSEY. 

To  kiss  the  chosen,  for  her  charms, 
"With  "  Rest  my  Hero,  in  mine  arms." 
Their  spirits  through  a  grim  wide  wound, 
The  Norse  door-way  to  heaven  found  ; 
And  borne  upon  the  battle  blast, 
Into  the  hall  of  Heroes  passed : 

And  there  was  crowned  the  Norseman. 

The  Norseman  wrestled  with  old  Rome, 
For  Freedom  in  our  Island  home  ; 
He  taught  us  how  to  ride  the  sea 
With  hempen  bridle,  horse  of  tree : 
The  Norseman  stood  with  Robin  Hood 
By  Freedom  in  the  merry  green  wood, 
When  William  ruled  the  English  land 
With  cruel  heart  and  bloody  hand. 

For  Freedom  fights  the  Norseman. 

Still  in  our  race  the  Norse  king  reigns ; 
His  best  blood  beats  along  our  veins  ; 
With  his  old  glory  we  can  glow, 
And  surely  sail  where  he  could  row : 
Is  danger  stirring  ?  from  its  sleep 
Our  War-dog  wakes  his  watch  to  keep, 
Stands  with  our  Banner  over  him, 
True  as  of  old,  and  stern  and  grim  ! 

Come  on,  you  '11  find  the  Norseman 

When  Swords  are  gleaming  you  shall  see 
The  Norseman's  face  flash  gloriously, 
With  look  that  makes  the  foeman  reel ; 
His  mirror  from  of  old  was  steel ! 
And  still  he  wields,  in  Battle's  hour, 
The  old  Thor's  hammer  of  Norse  power, 
Strikes  with  a  desperate  arm  of  might, 
And  at  the  last  tug  turns  the  fight : 

For  never  yields  the  Norseman 


THE   DRUIDS. 

BY  EDMUND  BURKE. 


BRITAIN  was  in  the  time  of  Julius  Caesar  what  it  is  at 
this  daj  in  climate  and  natural  advantages,  temperate 
and  reasonably  fertile.  But,  destitute  of  all  those  improve- 
ments which  in  a  succession  of  ages  it  has  received  from  in- 
genuity, from  commerce,  from  riches  and  luxury,  it  then 
wore  a  very  rough  and  savage  appearance.  The  country, 
forest  or  marsh ;  the  habitations,  cottages  ;  the  cities,  hiding- 
places  in  woods ;  the  people  naked,  or  only  covered  with 
skins  ;  their  sole  employment,  pasturage  and  hunting.  They 
painted  their  bodies  for  ornament  or  terror,  by  a  custom 
general  amongst  all  savage  nations,  who,  being  passion- 
ately fond  of  show  and  finery,  and  having  no  object  but 
their  naked  bodies  on  which  to  exercise  this  disposition, 
have  in  all  times  painted  or  cut  their  skins,  according  to 
their  ideas  of  ornament.  They  shaved  the  beard  on  the 
chin  ;  that  on  the  upper  lip  was  suffered  to  remain,  and 
grow  to  an  extraordinary  length,  to  favor  the  martial  ap- 
pearance, in  which  they  placed  their  glory.  They  were  in 
their  natural  temper  not  unlike  the  Gauls ;  impatient,  fiery, 
inconstant,  ostentatious,  boastful,  fond  of  novelty,  and,  like 
all  barbarians,  fierce,  treacherous,  and  cruel.  Their  arms 
were  short  javelins,  small  shields  of  a  slight  texture,  and 
great  cutting  swords  with  a  blunt  point,  after  the  Gaulish 
fashion. 


110  EDMUND  BURKE. 

Their  chiefs  went  to  battle  in  chariots,  not  unartfully 
contrived,  nor  unskilfully  managed.  I  cannot  help  tliink- 
ing  it  something  extraordinary,  and  not  easily  to  be  ac- 
counted for,  that  the  Britons  should  have  been  so  expert 
in  the  fabric  of  those  chariots,  when  they  seem  utterly 
ignorant  in  all  other  mechanic  arts  ;  but  thus  it  is  deliv- 
ered to  us.  They  had  also  horse,  though  of  no  great  repu- 
tation, in  their  armies.  Their  foot  was  without  hea\y 
armor ;  it  was  no  firm  body ;  nor  instructed  to  preserve 
their  ranks,  to  make  their  evolutions,  or  to  obey  their  com 
manders ;  but  in  tolerating  hardships,  in  dexterity  of  form- 
ing ambuscades  (the  art  military  of  savages),  they  are  said 
to  have  excelled.  A  natural  ferocity  and  an  impetuous 
onset  stood  them  in  the  place  of  discipline. 

It  is  very  difficult,  at  this  distance  of  time,  and  with  so 
little  information,  to  discern  clearly  what  sort  of  civil  gov- 
ernment prevailed  among  the  ancient  Britons.  In  all  very 
uncultivated  countries,  as  society  is  not  close  or  intricate, 
nor  property  very  valuable,  liberty  subsists  with  few  re- 
straints. The  natural  equality  of  mankind  appears,  and  is 
asserted ;  and  therefore  there  are  but  obscure  lines  of  any 
form  of  government.  In  every  society  of  this  sort  the 
natural  connections  are  the  same  as  in  others,  though  the 
political  ties  are  weak.  Among  such  barbarians,  therefore, 
though  there  is  little  authority  in  the  magistrate,  there  is 
often  great  power  lodged,  or  rather  left,  in  the  father ;  for, 
as  among  the  Gauls,  so  among  the  Britons,  he  had  the 
power  of  life  and  death  in  his  own  family,  over  his  chil- 
dren and  Ins  servants. 

But  among  freemen  and  heads  of  families  causes  of  all 
sorts  seem  to  have  been  decided  by  the  Druids  :  they  sum- 
moned and  dissolved  all  the  public  assemblies  ;  they  alone 
had  the  power  of  capital  punishments,  and  indeed  seem  to 
have  had  the  sole  execution  and  interpretation  of  whatever 
laws  subsisted  among  this  people.  In  this  respect  the 


THE  DRUIDS.  Ill 

Celtic  nations  did  not  greatly  differ  from  others,  except  that 
we  view  them  in  an  earlier  stage  of  society.  Justice  was 
in  all  countries  originally  administered  by  the  priesthood ; 
nor  indeed  could  laws  in  their  first  feeble  state  have  either 
authority  or  sanction,  so  as  to  compel  men  to  relinquish 
their  natural  independence,  had  they  not  appeared  to  come 
down  to  them  enforced  by  beings  of  more  than  human 
power.  The  first  openings  of  civility  have  been  every- 
where made  by  religion.  Amongst  the  Romans,  the  cus- 
tody and  interpretation  of  the  laws  continued  solely  in  the 
college  of  the  pontiffs  for  above  a  century. 

The  time  in  which  the  Druid  priesthood  was  instituted 
is  unknown.  It  probably  rose,  like  other  institutions  of 
that  kind,  from  low  and  obscure  beginnings ;  and  acquired 
from  time,  and  the  labors  of  able  men,  a  form,  by  which 
it  extended  itself  so  far,  and  attained  at  length  so  mighty 
an  influence  over  the  minds  of  a  fierce,  and  otherwise  un- 
governable, people.  Of  the  place  where  it  arose  there  is 
somewhat  less  doubt.  Caesar  mentions  it  as  the  common 
opinion  that  this  institution  began  in  Britain  ;  that  there  it 
always  remained  in  the  highest  perfection,  and  that  from 
thence  it  diffused  itself  into  Gaul.  I  own  I  find  it  not  easy 
to  assign  any  tolerable  cause  why  an  order  of  so  much 
authority,  and  a  discipline  so  exact,  should  have  passed 
from  the  more  barbarous  people  to  the  more  civilized  ; 
from  the  younger  to  the  older ;  from  the  colony  to  the 
mother  country ;  but  it  is  not  wonderful  that  the  early 
extinction  of  this  order,  and  that  general  contempt  in  which 
the  Romans  held  all  the  barbarous  nations,  should  have  left 
these  matters  obscure  and  full  of  difficulty. 

The  Druids  were  kept  entirely  distinct  from  the  body  of 
the  people ;  and  they  were  exempted  from  all  the  inferior 
and  burdensome  offices  of  society,  that  they  might  be  at 
leisure  to  attend  the  important  duties  of  their  own  charge. 
They  were  chosen  out  of  the  best  families,  and  from  the 


112  EDMUND  BURKE. 

young  men  of  the  most  promising  talents  ;  a  regulation 
which  placed  and  preserved  them  in  a  respectable  light 
with  the  world.  None  were  admitted  into  this  order  but 
after  a  long  and  laborious  novitiate,  which  made  the  char- 
acter venerable  in  their  own  eyes  by  the  time  and  difficulty 
of  attaining  it.  They  were  much  devoted  to  solitude,  and 
thereby  acquired  that  abstracted  and  thoughtful  air  wliich 
is  so  imposing  upon  the  vulgar.  And  when  they  appeared 
in  public  it  was  seldom,  and  only  on  some  great  occasion ; 
in  the  sacrifices  of  the  gods,  or  on  the  seat  of  judgment 
They  prescribed  medicine ;  they  formed  the  youth ;  they 
paid  the  last  honors  to  the  dead  ;  they  foretold  events  ;  they 
exercised  themselves  in  magic.  They  were  at  once  the 
priests,  lawgivers,  and  physicians  of  their  nation,  and  con- 
sequently concentred  in  themselves  all  that  respect  that 
men  have  diffusively  for  those  who  heal  their  diseases,  pro- 
tect their  property,  or  reconcile  them  to  the  Divinity. 
What  contributed  not  a  little  to  the  stability  and  power  of 
this  order  was  the  extent  of  its  foundation,  and  the  regu- 
larity and  proportion  of  its  structure.  It  took  in  both 
sexes ;  and  the  female  Druids  were  in  no  less  esteem  for 
their  knowledge  and  sanctity  than  the  males.  It  was  divid- 
ed into  several  subordinate  ranks  and  classes  ;  and  they  all 
depended  upon  a  chief,  or  Arch-Druid,  who  was  elected 
to  his  place  with  great  authority  and  pre-eminence  for  life. 
They  were  further  armed  with  a  power  of  interdicting  from 
their  sacrifices,  or  excommunicating,  any  obnoxious  persons. 
This  interdiction,  so  similar  to  that  used  by  the  ancient 
Athenians,  and  to  that  since  practised  among  Christians, 
was  followed  by  an  exclusion  from  all  the  benefits  of  civil 
community ;  and  it  was  accordingly  the  most  dreaded  of  all 
punishments.  This  ample  authority  was  in  general  use- 
fully exerted ;  by  the  interposition  of  the  Druids,  differ- 
ences were  composed  and  wars  ended  ;  and  the  minds  of  the 
fierce  Northern  people,  being  reconciled  to  each  other,  under 


THE  DRUIDS.  113 

the  influence  of  religion,  united  with  signal  effect  against 
their  common  enemies. 

There  was  a  class  of  the  Druids,  whom  they  called 
Bards,  who  delivered  in  songs  (their  only  history)  the  ex- 
ploits of  their  heroes;  and  who  composed  those  verses 
which  contained  the  secrets  of  Druidical  discipline,  their 
principles  of  natural  and  moral  philosophy,  their  astronomy, 
and  the  mystical  rites  of  their  religion.  These  verses  in  all 
probability  bore  a  near  resemblance  to  the  golden  verses 
of  Pythagoras ;  to  those  of  Phocylides,  Orpheus,  and  other 
remnants  of  the  most  ancient  Greek  poets.  The  Druids, 
even  in  Gaul,  where  they  were  not  altogether  ignorant  of 
the  use  of  letters,  in  order  to  preserve  their  knowledge  in 
greater  respect,  committed  none  of  their  precepts  to  writ- 
ing. The  proficiency  of  their  pupils  was  estimated  princi- 
pally by  the  number  of  technical  verses  which  they  retained 
in  their  memory :  a  circumstance  that  shows  this  discipline 
rather  calculated  to  preserve  with  accuracy  a  few  plain 
maxims  of  traditionary  science,  than  to  improve  and  extend 
it.  And  this  is  not  the  sole  circumstance  which  leads  us 
to  believe  that  among  them  learning  had  advanced  no 
further  than  its  infancy. 

The  scholars  of  the  Druids,  like  those  of  Pythagoras, 
were  carefully  enjoined  a  long  and  religious  silence ;  for  if 
barbarians  come  to  acquire  any  knowledge,  it  is  rather  by 
instruction  than  examination :  they  must  therefore  be  silent. 
Pythagoras,  in  the  rude  times  of  Greece,  required  silence 
in  his  disciples ;  but  Socrates,  in  the  meridian  of  the  Athe- 
nian refinement,  spoke  less  than  his  scholars:  everything 
was  disputed  in  the  Academy. 

The  Druids  are  said  to  be  very  expert  in  astronomy,  in 
geography,  and  in  all  parts  of  mathematical  knowledge. 
And  authors  speak,  in  a  very  exaggerated  strain,  of  their 
excellence  in  these,  and  in  many  other  sciences.  Some 
elemental  knowledge  I  suppose  they  had ;  but  I  can 


114  EDMUND  BURKE. 

scarcely  be  persuaded  that  their  learning  was  either  deep 
or  extensive.  In  all  countries  where  Druidism  was  pro- 
fessed, the  youth  were  generally  instructed  by  that  order; 
and  yet  was  there  little,  either  in  the  manners  of  the  peo- 
ple, in  their  way  of  life,  or  their  works  of  art,  that  demon- 
strates profound  science,  or  particularly  mathematical  skill. 
Britain,  where  their  discipline  was  in  its  highest  perfection, 
and  which  was  therefore  resorted  to  by  the  people  of  Gaul, 
as  an  oracle  in  Druidical  questions,  was  more  barbarous  in 
all  other  respects  than  Gaul  itself,  or  than  any  other  coun- 
try then  known  in  Europe.  These  piles  of  rude  magnifi- 
cence, Stonehenge  and  Abury,  are  in  vain  produced  in 
proof  of  their  mathematical  abilities.  These  vast  structures 
have  nothing  which  can  be  admired,  but  the  greatness  of 
the  work ;  and  they  are  not  the  only  instances  of  the  great 
things  which  the  mere  labor  of  many  hands  united,  and 
persevering  in  their  purpose,  may  accomplish  with  very 
little  help  from  mechanics.  Th^  may  be  evinced  by  the 
immense  buildings,  and  the  low  state  of  the  sciences,  among 
the  original  Peruvians. 

The  Druids  were  eminent,  above  all  the  philosophic 
lawgivers  of  antiquity,  for  their  care  in  impressing  the 
doctrine  of  the  soul's  immortality  on  the  minds  of  their 
people,  as  an  operative  and  leading  principle.  This  doc- 
trine was  inculcated  on  the  scheme  of  transmigration,  which 
some  imagine  them  to  have  derived  from  Pythagoras.  But 
it  is  by  no  means  necessary  to  resort  to  any  particular 
teacher  for  an  opinion  which  owes  its  birth  to  the  weak 
struggles  of  unenlightened  reason,  and  to  mistakes  natural 
to  the  human  mind.  The  idea  of  the  soul's  immortality  is 
indeed  ancient,  universal,  and  in  a  manner  inherent  in  our 
nature :  but  it  is  not  easy  for  a  rude  people  to  conceive  any 
other  mode  of  existence  than  one  similar  to  what  they  had 
experienced  in  life;  nor  any  other  world  as  the  scene  of 
such  an  existence  but  this  we  inhabit,  beyond  the  bounds  of 


THE  DRUIDS.  115 

which  the  mind  extends  itself  with  great  difficulty.  Admi- 
ration, indeed,  was  able  to  exalt  to  heaven  a  few  selected 
heroes:  it  did  not  seem  absurd  that  those,  who  in  their 
mortal  state  had  distinguished  themselves  as  superior  and 
overruling  spirits,  should  after  death  ascend  to  that  sphere 
which  influences  and  governs  everything  below;  or  that 
the  proper  abode  of  beings,  at  once  so  illustrious  and  per- 
manent, should  be  in  that  part  of  nature  in  which  they  had 
always  observed  the  greatest  splendor  and  the  least  muta- 
tion. But  on  ordinary  occasions  it  was  natural  some  should 
imagine  that  the  dead  retired  into  a  remote  country,  sepa- 
rated from  the  living  by  seas  or  mountains.  It  was  natural 
that  some  should  follow  their  imagination  with  a  simplicity 
still  purer,  and  pursue  the  souls  of  men  no  further  than 
the  sepulchres  in  which  their  bodies  had  been  deposited; 
whilst  others  of  deeper  penetration,  observing  that  bodies 
worn  out  by  age,  or  destroyed  by  accidents,  still  afforded 
the  materials  for  generating  new  ones,  concluded  likewise 
that  a  soul  being  dislodged  did  not  wholly  perish,  but  was 
destined,  by  a  similar  revolution  in  nature,  to  act  again,  and 
to  animate  some  other  body.  This  last  principle  gave  rise 
to  the  doctrine  of  transmigration ;  but  we  must  not  presume, 
of  course,  that  where  it  prevailed  it  necessarily  excluded  the 
other  opinions ;  for  it  is  not  remote  from  the  usual  proced- 
ure of  the  human  mind,  blending,  in  obscure  matters,  imag- 
ination and  reasoning  together,  to  unite  ideas  the  most 
inconsistent.  When  Homer  represents  the  ghosts  of  his 
heroes  appealing  at  the  sacrifices  of  Ulysses,  he  supposes 
them  endued  with  life,  sensation,  and  a  capacity  of  moving, 
but  he  has  joined  to  these  powers  of  living  existence  un- 
comeliness,  want  of  strength,  want  of  distinction,  the  char- 
acteristics of  a  dead  carcass.  This  is  what  the  mind  is  apt 
to  do :  it  is  very  apt  to  confound  the  ideas  of  the  surviving 
soul  and  the  dead  body.  The  vulgar  have  always,  and  still 
do,  confound  these  very  irreconcilable  ideas.  They  lay  the 


116  EDMUND  BURKE 

scene  of  apparitions  in  churchyards ;  they  habit  the  ghosl 
in  a  shroud,  and  it  appears  in  all  the  ghastly  paleness  of  a 
corpse.  A  contradiction  of  this  kind  has  given  rise  to  a 
doubt  whether  the  Druids  did  in  reality  hold  the  doctrine 
of  transmigration.  There  is  positive  testimony  that  they 
did  hold  it.  There  is  also  testimony  as  positive  that  they 
buried  or  burned  with  the  dead  utensils,  arms,  slaves,  and 
whatever  might  be  judged  useful  to  them,  as  if  they  were  tci 
tx5  removed  into  a  separate  state.  They  might  have  held 
both  these  opinions;  and  we  ought  not  to  be  surprised  to 
find  error  inconsistent. 

The  objects  of  the  Druid  worship  were  many.  In  this 
respect  they  did  not  differ  from  other  heathens ;  but  it  must 
be  owned,  that  in  general  their  ideas  of  divine  matters  were 
more  exalted  than  those  of  the  Greeks  and  Romans,  and 
that  they  did  not  fall  into  an  idolatry  so  coarse  and  vulgar. 
That  their  gods  should  be  represented  under  a  human  form, 
they  thought  derogatory  to  beings  uncreated  and  imperisha- 
ble. To  confine  what  can  endure  no  limits  within  walls 
and  roofs,  they  judged  absurd  and  impious.  In  these  par- 
ticulars there  was  something  refined,  and  suitable  enough 
to  a  just  idea  of  the  Divinity.  But  the  rest  was  not  equal. 
Some  notions  they  had,  like  the  greatest  part  of  mankind,  of 
a  Being  eternal  and  infinite ;  but  they  also,  like  the  greatest 
pait  of  mankind,  paid  their  worship  to  inferior  objects,  from 
the  nature  of  ignorance  and  superstition  always  tending 
downwards. 

The  first  and  chief  objects  of  their  worship  were  the  ele- 
ments ;  and,  of  the  elements,  fire,  as  the  most  pure,  active, 
penetrating,  and  what  gives  life  and  energy  to  all  the  rest. 
Among  fires,  the  preference  was  given  to  the  sun,  as  the 
most  glorious  visible  being,  and  the  fountain  of  all  life. 
Next  they  venerated  the  moon  and  the  planets.  After  fire, 
water  was  held  in  reverence.  This,  when  pure,  and  ritualty 
prepared,  was  supposed  to  wash  away  all  sins,  and  to  qual 


THE  DRUIDS.  117 

ify  the  priest  to  approach  the  altar  of  the  gods  with  more 
acceptable  prayers  ;  washing  with  water  being  a  type  natu- 
ral enough  of  inward  cleansing  and  purity  of  mind.  They 
also  worshipped  fountains,  and  lakes,  and  rivers. 

Oaks  were  regarded  by  this  sect  with  a  particular  ven- 
eration, as  by  their  greatness,  their  shade,  their  stability 
and  duration,  not  ill  representing  the  perfections  of  the 
Deity.  From  the  great  reverence  in  which  they  held  this 
tree,  it  is  thought  their  name  of  Druids  is  derived,  the 
word  Deru  in  the  Celtic  language  signifying  an  oak.  But 
their  reverence  was  not  wholly  confined  to  this  tree.  All 
forests  were  held  sacred ;  and  many  particular  plants  were 
respected,  as'^endued  with  a  particular  holiness.  No  plant 
was  more  revered  than  the  mistletoe,  especially  if  it  grew 
on  the  oak ;  not  only  because  it  is  rarely  found  upon  that 
tree,  but  because  the  oak  was  among  the  Druids  peculiarly 
sacred.  Towards  the  end  of  the  year  they  searched  for  this 
plant,  and  when  it  was  found  great  rejoicing  ensued  :  it  was 
approached  with  reverence  ;  it  was  cut  with  a  golden  hook  ; 
it  was  not  suffered  to  fall  to  the  ground,  but  received  with 
great  care  and  solemnity  upon  a  white  garment. 

In  ancient  times,  and  in  all  countries,  the  profession  of 
physic  was  annexed  to  the  priesthood.  Men  imagined  that 
all  their  diseases  were  inflicted  by  the  immediate  displeas- 
ure of  the  Deity,  and  therefore  concluded  that  the  remedy 
would  most  probably  proceed  from  those  who  were  particu- 
larly employed  in  his  service.  Whatever,  for  the  same 
reason,  was  found  of  efficacy  to  avert  or  cure  distempers 
was  considered  as  partaking  somewhat  of  the  Divinity. 
Medicine  was  always  joined  with  magic ;  no  remedy  was 
administered  without  mysterious  ceremony  and  incantation. 
The  use  of  plants  and  herbs,  both  in  medicinal  and  magical 
practices,  was  early  and  general.  The  mistletoe,  pointed 
out  by  its  very  peculiar  appearance  and  manner  of  growth, 
must  have  struck  powerfully  on  the  imaginations  of  a  su- 


118  EDMUND  BUKKE. 

perstitious  people.  Its  virtues  may  have  been  soon  discov- 
ered. It  has  been  fully  proved,  against  the  opinion  of 
Celsus,  that  internal  remedies  were  of  very  early  use. 
Yet  if  it  had  not,  the  practice  of  the  present  savage  nations 
supports  the  probability  of  that  opinion.  By  some  modern 
authors  the  mistletoe  is  said  to  be  of  signal  service  in  the 
cure  of  certain  convulsive  distempers,  which,  by  their  sud- 
denness, their  violence,  and  their  unaccountable  symptoms, 
have  been  ever  considered  as  supernatural.  The  epilepsy 
was  by  the  Romans  for  that  reason  called  Morbus  Sacer  ; 
and  all  other  nations  have  regarded  it  in  the  same  light. 
The  Druids  also  looked  upon  vervain,  and  some  other 
plants,  as  holy,  and  p .  >bably  for  a  similar  reason. 

The  other  objects  of  the  Druid  worship  were  chiefly 
serpents  in  the  animal  world,  and  rude  heaps  of  stone,  or 
great  pillars  without  polish  or  sculpture,  in  the  inanimate. 
The  serpent,  by  his  dangerous  qualities,  is  not  ill  adapted  to 
inspire  terror  ;  by  his  annual  renewals,  to  raise  admiration  ; 
by  his  make,  easily  susceptible  of  many  figures,  to  serve  for 
a  variety  of  symbols  ;  and  by  all,  to  be  an  object  of  religious 
observance  :  accordingly  no  object  of  idolatry  has  been  more 
universal.  And  this  is  so  natural,  that  serpent-veneration 
seems  to  be  rising  again  even  in  the  bosom  of  Mahome- 
tanism. 

The  great  stones,  it  has  been  supposed,  were  originally 
monuments  of  illustrious  men,  or  the  memorials  of  consid- 
erable actions,  or  they  were  landmarks  for  deciding  the 
bounds  of  fixed  property.  In  time,  the  memory  of  the 
persons  or  facts  which  these  stones  were  erected  to  perpetu- 
ate wore  away  ;  but  the  reverence  which  custom,  and  proba- 
bly certain  periodical  ceremonies,  had  preserved  for  those 
places  was  not  so  soon  obliterated.  The  monuments  them- 
selves then  came  to  be  venerated  ;  and  not  the  less  because 
the  reason  for  venerating  them  was  no  longer  known.  The 
landmark  was  in  those  times  held  sacred  on  account  of  its 


THE  DRUIDS.  119 

great  uses,  and  easily  passed  into  an  object  of  worship. 
Hence  the  god  Terminus  amongst  the  Romans.  This  relig- 
ious observance  towards  rude  stones  is  one  of  the  most 
ancient  and  universal  of  all  customs.  Traces  of  it  are  to 
be  found  in  almost  all,  and  especially  in  these  Northern 
nations ;  and  to  this  day  in  Lapland,  where  heathenism  is 
not  yet  entirely  extirpated,  their  chief  divinity,  which  they 
call  Stor  Junkare,  is  nothing  more  than  a  rude  stone. 

Some  writers,  among  the  moderns,  because  the  Druids 
ordinarily  made  no  use  of  images  in  their  worship,  have 
given  in  to  an  opinion,  that  their  religion  was  founded  on 
the  unity  of  the  Godhead.  Buf  this  is  no  just  consequence. 
The  spirituality  of  the  idea,  admitting  their  idea  to  have 
been  spiritual,  does  not  infer  the  unity  of  the  object  All 
the  ancient  authors  who  speak  of  this  order  agree,  that, 
besides  those  great  and  more  distinguishing  objects  of  their 
worsliip  already  mentioned,  they  had  gods  answerable  to 
those  adored  by  the  Romans.  And  we  know  that  the 
Northern  nations  who  overran  the  Roman  Empire  had  in 
fact  a  great  plurality  of  gods,  whose  attributes,  though  not 
their  names,  bore  a  close  analogy  to  the  idols  of  the  South- 
ern world. 

The  Druids  performed  the  highest  act  of  religion  by 
sacrifice,  agreeably  to  the  custom  of  all  other  nations. 
They  not  only  offered  up  beasts,  but  even  human  victims  ; 
a  barbarity  almost  universal  in  the  heathen  world,  but  exer- 
cised more  uniformly,  and  with  circumstances  of  peculiar 
craelty,  amongst  those  nations  where  the  religion  of  the 
Druids  prevailed.  They  held  that  the  life  of  a  man  was 
the  only  atonement  for  the  life  of  a  man.  They  frequently 
enclosed  a  number  of  wretches,  some  captives,  some  crimi- 
nals, and,  when  these  were  wanting,  even  innocent  victims, 
in  a  gigantic  statue  of  wicker-work,  to  which  they  set  fire, 
and  invoked  their  deities  amidst  the  horrid  cries  and  shrieks 
of  the  sufferers,  and  the  shouts  of  those  who  assisted  at 
tins  tremendous  rite. 


120  EDMUND   BURKE. 

There  were  none  among  the  ancients  more  emiuent  foi 
all  the  arts  of  divination  than  the  Druids.  Many  of  the 
superstitious  practices  in  use  to  this  day  among  the  country 
people  for  discovering  their  future  fortune  seem  to  be 
remains  of  Druidism.  Futurity  is  the  great  concern  of 
mankind.  Whilst  the  wise  and  learned  look  back  upon  ex- 
perience and  history,  and  reason  from  things  past  about 
events  to  come,  it  is  natural  for  the  rude  and  ignorant,  who 
have  the  same  desires  without  the  same  reasonable  means 
of  satisfaction,  to  inquire  into  the  secrets  of  futurity,  and 
to  govern  their  conduct  by  omens,  dreams,  and  prodigies. 
The  Druids,  as  well  as  th%  Etruscan  and  Roman  priest- 
hood, attended  with  diligence  the  flight  of  birds,  the  pecking 
of  chickens,  and  the  entrails  of  their  animal  sacrifices.  It 
was  obvious  that  no  contemptible  prognostics  of  the  weather 
were  to  be  taken  from  certain  motions  and  appearances  in 
birds  and  beasts.  A  people  who  lived  mostly  in  the  open 
air  must  have  been  well  skilled  in  these  observations.  And 
as  changes  in  the  weather  influenced  much  the  fortune  of 
their  huntings,  or  their  harvests,  which  were  all  their  for- 
tunes, it  was  easy  to  apply  the  same  prognostics  to  every 
event  by  a  transition  very  natural  and  common ;  and  thus 
probably  arose  the  science  of  auspices,  which  formerly 
guided  the  deliberations  of  councils,  and  the  motions  of 
armies,  though  now  they  only  serve,  and  scarcely  serve,  if 
amuse  the  vulgar. 

The  Druid  temple  is  represented  to  have  been  nothing 
more  than  a  consecrated  wood.  The  ancients  speak  of  no 
other.  But  monuments  remain  which  show  that  the  Druids 
Avere  not  in  this  respect  wholly  confined  to  groves.  They 
had  also  a  species  of  building,  which  in  all  probability 
was  destined  to  religious  use.  This  sort  of  structure 
was  indeed  without  walls  or  roof.  It  was  a  colonnade, 
generally  circular,  of  huge  rude  stones,  sometimes  single, 
sometimes  double  ;  sometimes  with,  often  without,  an 


THE  DRUIDS.  121 

architrave  These  open  temples  were  not  in  all  respects 
peculiar  to  the  Northern  nations.  Those  of  the  Greeks 
which  were  dedicated  to  the  celestial  gods,  ought  in  strict- 
ness to  have  had  no  roof,  and  were  thence  called  Hy- 
pcethra. 

Many  of  these  monuments  remain  in  the  British  islands, 
curious  for  their  antiquity,  or  astonishing  for  the  greatness 
of  the  work ;  enormous  masses  of  rock,  so  poised  as  to  be 
set  in  motion  with  the  slightest  touch,  yet  not  to  be  pushed 
from  their  place  by  a  very  great  power  :  7a»t  altars,  pecu- 
liar and  mystical  in  their  structure,  thrones,  basins,  heaps 
or  kearns  ;  and  a  variety  of  other  works,  displaying  a  wild 
industry,  and, a  strange  mixture  of  ingenuity  and  rudeness. 
But  they  are  all  worthy  of  attention ;  not  only  as  such 
monuments  often  clear  up  the  darkness,  and  supply  the 
defects,  of  history,  but  as  they  lay  open  a  noble  field  of 
speculation  for  those  who  study  the  changes  which  have 
happened  in  the  manners,  opinions,  and  sciences  of  men, 
and  who  think  them  as  worthy  of  regard  as  the  fortune 
of  wars,  and  the  revolutions  of  kingdoms. 

The  short  account  which  I  have  here  given  does  not  con- 
tain the  whole  of  what  is  handed  down  to  us  by  ancient 
writers,  or  discovered  by  modern  research,  concerning  this 
remarkable  order.  But  I  have  selected  those  which  appear 
to  me  the  most  striking  features,  and  such  as  throw  the 
strongest  light  on  the  genius  and  true  character  of  the  Dru- 
idical  institution.  In  some  respects  it  was  undoubtedly 
very  singular  ;  it  stood  out  more  from  the  body  of  the 
people  than  the  priesthood  of  other  nations  ;  and  their 
knowledge  and  policy  appeared  the  more  striking  by  being 
contrasted  with  the  great  simplicity  and  rudeness  of  the 
people  over  whom  they  presided.  But,  notwithstanding 
some  peculiar  appearances  and  practices,  it  is  impossible 
not  to  perceive  a  great  conformity  between  this  and  the 
ancient  orders  which  have  been  established  for  the  purposes 


122  EDMUND  BURKE. 

of  religion  in  almost  all  countries.  For,  to  say  nothing  of 
the  resemblance  which  many  have  traced  between  this  and 
the  Jewish  priesthood,  the  Persian  Magi,  and  the  India 
Brachmans,  it  did  not  so  greatly  differ  from  the  Roman 
priesthood  either  in  the  original  objects,  or  in  the  general 
mode  of  worship,  or  in  the  constitution  of  their  hierarchy. 
In  the  original  institution,  neither  of  these  nations  had  the 
use  of  images ;  the  rules  of  the  Salian  as  well  as  Druid 
discipline  were  delivered  in  verse  ;  both  orders  were  under 
an  elective  head ;  and  both  were  for  a  long  time  the  law- 
yers of  their  country.  So  that  when  the  order  of  Druids 
was  suppressed  by  the  emperors,  it  was  rather  from  a  dread 
of  an  influence  incompatible  with  the  Roman  government, 
lhan  from  any  dislike  of  their  religious  opinions. 


THE  WITCH'S  DAUGHTER. 

BY  JOHN  G.  WHITTTER. 

IT  was  the  pleasant  harvest  time, 
When  cellar-bins  are  closely  stowed, 
And  garrets  bend  beneath  their  load, 

And  the  old  swallow-haunted  barns  — 
Brown-gabled,  long,  and  full  of  seams 
Through  which  the  moted  sunlight  streams. 

And  winds  blow  freshly  in,  to  shake 
The  red  plumes  of  the  roosted  cocks, 
And  the  loose  haymow's  scented  locks  — •» 

Are  filled  with  summer's  ripened  stores, 
Its  odorous  grass  and  barley  sheaves, 
From  their  low  scaffolds  to  their  eaves. 

On  Esek  Harden's  oaken  floor, 

With  many  an  autumn  threshing  worn, 
Lay  the  heaped  ears  of  unhusked  corn. 

And  thither  came  young  men  and  maids, 
Beneath  a  moon  that,  large  and  low, 
Lit  that  sweet  eve  of  long  ago. 


124  JOHN  G.   WHITTIER. 

They  took  then  places  ;  some  by  chance, 
And  others  by  a  merry  voice 
Or  sweet  sinile  guided  to  their  choice. 

How  pleasantly  the  rising  moon, 
Between  the  shadow  of  the  mows, 
Looked  on  them  through  the  great  elm  boughs  ! 

On  sturdy  boyhood  sun-embrowned, 
On  girlhood  with  its  solid  curves 
Of  healthful  strength  and  painless  nerves  ! 

And  jests  went  round,  and  laughs  that  made 
The  house-dog  answer  with  his  howl, 
And  kept  astir  the  barn-yard  fowl ; 

And  quaint  old  songs  their  fathers  sung, 
In  Derby  dales  and  Yorkshire  moors, 
Ere  Norman  William  trod  their  shores  ; 

And  tales,  whose  merry  license  shook 
The  fat  sides  of  the  Saxon  thane, 
Forgetful  of  the  hovering  Dane  ! 

But  still  the  sweetest  voice  was  mute 
That  river-valley  ever  heard, 
From  lip  of  maid  or  throat  of  bird  ; 

For  Mabel  Martin  sat  apart, 

And  let  the  haymow's  shadow  fall 
Upon  the  loveliest  face  of  all. 

She  sat  apart,  as  one  forbid, 

Who  knew  that  none  would  condescend 
To  own  the  Witch-wife's  child  a  friend. 


THE   WITCH'S  DAUGHTER. 

The  seasons  scarce  had  gone  their  round, 
Since  curious  thousands  thronged  to  see 
Her  mother  on  the  gallows-tree  ; 

And  mocked  the  palsied  limbs  of  age, 
That  faltered  on  the  fatal  stairs, 
And  wan  lip  trembling  with  its  prayers ! 

Few  questioned  of  the  sorrowing  child, 
Or,  when  they  saw  the  mother  die, 
Dreamed  of  the  daughter's  agony. 

They  'went  up  to  their  homes  that  day, 
As  men  and  Christians  justified  : 
God  willed  it,  and  the  wretch  had  died  I 

Dear  God  and  Father  of  us  all, 
Forgive  our  faith  in  cruel  lies,  — 
Forgive  the  blindness  that  denies  ! 

Forgive  thy  creature  when  he  takes, 
For  the  all-perfect  love  thou  art, 
Some  grim  creation  of  his  heart. 

Cast  down  our  idols,  overturn 
Our  bloody  altars  ;  let  us  see 
Thyself  in  thy  humanity  ! 

Poor  Mabel  from  her  mother's  grave 
Crept  to  her  desolate  hearthstone, 
And  wrestled  with  her  fate  alone ; 

With  love,  and  anger,  and  despair, 
The  phantoms  of  disordered  sense, 
The  awful  doubts  of  Providence ! 


126  JOHN   G.   WHITTIER. 

The  school-boys  jeered  her  as  they  passed 
And,  when  she  sought  the  house  of  prayer, 
Her  mother's  curse  pursued  her  there. 

And  still  o'er  many  a  neighboring  door 
She  saw  the  horseshoe's  curved  charm, 
To  guard  against  her  mother's  harm  ;  — 

That  mother,  poor,  and  sick,  and  lame, 
Who  daily,  by  the  old  arm-chair, 
Folded  her  withered  arms  in  prayer ;  — 

Who  turned,  in  Salem's  dreary  jail, 
Her  worn  old  Bible  o'er  and  o'er, 
When  her  dun  eyes  could  read  no  more ! 

Sore  tried  and  pained,  the  poor  girl  kept 
Her  faith,  and  trusted  that  her  way, 
So  dark,  would  somewhere  meet  the  day. 

And  still  her  weary  wheel  went  round 
Day  after  day,  with  no  relief: 
Small  leisure  have  the  poor  for  grief. 

So  in  the  shadow  Mabel  sits ; 

Untouched  by  mirth  she  sees  and  hears ; 
Her  smile  is  sadder  than  her  tears. 

But  cruel  eyes  have  found  her  out, 
And  cruel  lips  repeat  her  name, 
And  taunt  her  with  her  mother's  shame. 

She  answered  not  with  railing  words, 
But  drew  her  apron  o'er  her  face, 
And,  sobbing,  glided  from  the  place. 


THE   WITCH'S  DAUGHTER.  127 

And  only  pausing  at  the  door, 

Her  sad  eyes  met  the  troubled  gaze 
Of  one  who,  in  her  better  days, 

Had  been  her  warm  and  steady  friend 
Ere  yet  her  mother's  doom  had  made 
Even  Esek  Harden  half  afraid. 

He  felt  that  mute  appeal  of  tears, 
And,  starting,  with  an  angry  frown 
Hushed  all  the  wicked  murmurs  down. 

"  Good  neighbors  mine,"  he  sternly  said, 
"  This  passes  harmless  mirth  or  jest ; 
I  brook  no  insult  to  my  guest. 

"  She  is  indeed  her  mother's  child  ; 
But  God's  sweet  pity  ministers 
Unto  no  whiter  soul  than  hers. 

**  Let  Goody  Martin  rest  in  peace  ; 
I  never  knew  her  harm  a  fly, 
And  witch  or  not,  God  knows  —  not  L 

"  I  know  who  swore  her  life  away ; 
And,  as  God  lives,  I  'd  not  condemn 
An  Indian  dog  on  word  of  them." 

The  broadest  lands  in  all  the  town, 
The  skill  to  guide,  the  power  to  awe, 
Were  Harden's  ;  and  his  word  was  law. 

None  dared  withstand  him  to  his  face, 
But  one  sly  maiden  spake  aside  • 
"  The  little  witch  is  evil  eyed  ! 


128  JOHN   G.   WHITTIER. 

"  Her  mother  only  killed  a  cow, 
Or  witched  a  churn  or  dairy-pan  ; 
But  she,  forsooth,  must  charm  a  man ! " 

Poor  Mabel,  in  her  lonely  home, 
Sat  by  the  window's  narrow  pane, 
White  in  the  moonlight's  silver  rain. 

The  river,  on  its  pebbled  rim, 

Made  music  such  as  childhood  knew  ; 
The  door-yard  tree  was  whispered  through 

By  voices  such  as  childhood's  ear 
Had  heard  in  moonlights  long  ago ; 
And  through  the  willow  boughs  below 

She  saw  the  rippled  water  shine  ; 
Beyond,  in  waves  of  shade  and  light, 
The  hills  rolled  off  into  the  night 

Sweet  sounds  and  pictures  mocking  so 
The  sadness  of  her  human  lot, 
She  saw  and  heard,  but  heeded  not. 

She  strove  to  drown  her  sense  of  wrong, 
And,  in  her  old  and  simple  way, 
To  teach  her  bitter  heart  to  pray. 

Poor  child !  the  prayer,  begun  in  faith, 
Grew  to  a  low,  despairing  cry 
Of  utter  misery  :  "  Let  me  die  ! 

"  0,  take  me  from  the  scornful  eyes, 
And  hide  me  where  the  cruel  speech 
And  mocking  finger  may  not  reach  ! 


THE  WITCH'S  DAUGHTER.  129 

*  I  dare  not  breathe  my  mother's  name  : 
A  daughter's  right  I  dare  not  cri^ve 
To  weep  above  her  unblest  grave ! 

"  Let  me  not  live  until  my  heart, 
With  few  to  pity,  and  with  none 
To  love  me,  hardens  into  stone. 

"  O  God  !  have  mercy  on  thy  child, 

Whose  faith  in  thee  grows  weak  and  small, 
And  take  me  ere  I  lose  it  all ! " 

A  shadow  on  the  moonlight  fell, 

And  murmuring  wind  and  wave  became 
A  voice  whose  burden  was  her  name. 

Had  then  God  heard  her  ?  Had  he  sent 
His  angel  down  ?  In  flesh  and  blood, 
Before  her  Esek  Harden  stood  ? 

He  laid  his  hand  upon  her  arm : 

"  Dear  Mabel,  this  no  more  shall  be  ; 
Who  scoffs  at  you,  must  scoff  at  me. 

"  You  know  rough  Esek  Harden  well ; 
And  if  he  seems  no  suitor  gay, 
And  if  his  hair  is  touched  with  gray, 

"  The  maiden  grown  shall  never  find 

His  heart  less  warm  than  when  she  smiled, 
Upon  his  knees,  a  little  child  !  " 

Her  tears  of  grief  were  tears  of  joy, 
As,  folded  in  his  strong  embrace, 
She  looked  in  Esek  Harden's  face. 


130  JOHN  G.  WHITTIER. 

'  O,  truest  friend  of  aU  !  "  she  said, 

"  God  bless  you  for  your  kindly  thought, 
And  make  me  worthy  of  my  lot ! " 

He  led  her  through  his  dewy  fields, 

To  where  the  swinging  lanterns  glowed, 
And  through  the  doors  the  huskers  showed 

"  Good  friends  and  neighbors ! "  Esek  said, 
"  I  'm  weary  of  this  lonely  life ; 
In  Mabel  see  my  chosen  wife  ! 

"  She  greets  you  kindly,  one  and  all ; 
The  past  is  past,  and  all  offence 
Falls  harmless  from  her  innocence. 

"  Henceforth  she  stands  no  more  alone  ; 
You  know  what  Esek  Harden  is  ;  — 
He  brooks  no  wrong  to  him  or  his." 

Now  let  the  merriest  tales  be  told, 
And  let  the  sweetest  songs  be  sung, 
That  ever  made  the  old  heart  young ! 

For  now  the  lost  has  found  a  home ; 
And  a  lone  hearth  shall  brighter  burn, 
As  all  the  household  joys  return ! 

O,  pleasantly  the  harvest  moon, 
Between  the  shadow  of  the  mows, 
Looked  on  them  through  the  great  elm  boughs ! 

On  Mabel's  curls  of  golden  hair 
On  Esek's  shaggy  strength  it  fell ; 
And  the  wind  whispered,  "  It  is  well ! n 


THE  OLD  LADY,  AND  THE  OLD  GENTLEMiN 

BY  LEIGH  HUNT. 

THE     OLD    LADY. 

IF  the  Old  Lady  is  a  widow  and  lives  alone,  the  man- 
ners of  her  condition  and  time  of  life  are  so  much  the 
more  apparent.  She  generally  dresses  in  plain  silks,  that 
make  a  gentle  rustling  as  she  moves  about  the  silence  of 
her  room;  and  she  wears  a  nice  cap  with  a  lace  border, 
that  comes  under  the  chin.  In  a  placket  at  her  side  is  an 
old  enamelled  watch,  unless  it  is  locked  up  in  a  drawer 
of  her  toilet,  for  fear  of  accidents.  Her  waist  is  rather 
tight  and  trim  than  otherwise,  as  she  had  a  fine  one  when 
young ;  and  she  is  not  sorry  if  you  see  a  pair  of  her  stock- 
ings on  a  table,  that  you  may  be  aware  of  the  neatness  of 
her  leg  and  foot  Contented  with  these  and  other  evident 
indications  of  a  good  shape,  and  letting  her  young  friends 
understand  that  she  can  afford  to  obscure  it  a  little,  she 
wears  pockets,  and  uses  them  well  too.  In  the  one  is 
her  handkerchief,  and  any  heavier  matter  that  is  not  likely 
to  come  out  with  it,  such  as  the  change  of  a  sixpence  ;  in 
the  other  is  a  miscellaneous  assortment,  consisting  of  a 
pocket-book,  a  bunch  of  keys,  a  needle-case,  a  spectacle- 
case,  crumbs  of  biscuit,  a  nutmeg  and  grater,  a  smelling- 
bottle,  and,  according  to  the  season,  an  orange  or  apple, 
which  after  many  days  she  draws  out,  warm  and  glossy, 


132  LEIGH  HUNT. 

to  give  to  some  little  child  that  has  well  behaved  itself. 
She  generally  occupies  two  rooms,  in  the  neatest  condition 
possible.  In  the  chamber  is  a  bed  with  a  white  coverlet, 
built  up  high  and  round,  to  look  well,  and  with  curtains 
of  a  pastoral  pattern,  consisting  alternately  of  large  plants, 
and  shepherds  and  shepherdesses.  On  the  mantel-piece 
are  more  shepherds  and  shepherdesses,  with  dot-eyed  sheep 
at  their  feet,  all  in  colored  ware :  the  man,  perhaps,  in  a 
pink  jacket  and  knots  of  ribbons  at  his  knees  and  shoes, 
holding  his  crook  lightly  in  one  hand,  and  with  the  other 
at  his  breast,  turning  his  toes  out  and  looking  tenderly  at 
the  shepherdess ;  the  woman  holding  a  crook  also,  and 
modestly  returning  his  look,  with  a  gypsy-hat  jerked  up 
behind,  a  very  slender  waist,  with  petticoat  and  hips  to 
counteract,  and  the  petticoat  pulled  up  through  the  pocket- 
holes,  in  order  to  show  the  trimness  of  her  ankles.  But 
these  patterns,  of  course,  are  various.  The  toilet  is  an- 
cient, carved  at  the  edges,  and  tied  about  with  a  snow- 
white  drapery  of  muslin.  Beside  it  are  various  boxes, 
mostly  japan ;  and  the  set  of  drawers  are  exquisite  things 
for  a  little  girl  to  rummage,  if  ever  little  girl  be  so  bold,  — 
containing  ribbons  and  laces  of  various  kinds  ;  linen  smell- 
ing of  lavender,  of  the  flowers  of  which  there  is  always 
dust  in  the  corners;  a  heap  of  pocket-books  for  a  series 
of  years ;  and  pieces  of  dress  long  gone  by,  such  as  head- 
fronts,  stomachers,  and  flowered  satin  shoes,  with  enormous 
heels.  The  stock  of  letters  are  under  especial  -lock  and 
key.  So  much  for  the  bedroom.  In  the  sitting-room  is 
rather  a  spare  assortment  of  shining  old  mahogany  furni- 
ture, or  carved  arm-chairs  equally  old,  with  chintz  dra- 
peries down  to  the  ground ;  a  folding  or  other  screen,  with 
Chinese  figures,  their  round,  little-eyed,  meek  faces  perking 
sideways ;  a  stuffed  bird,  perhaps  in  a  glass  case  (a  living 
one  is  too  much  for  her)  ;  a  portrait  of  her  husband  over 
the  mantel-piece,  in  a  coat  with  frog-buttons,  and  a  delicate 


THE   OLD   LADY.  133 

frilled  hand  lightly  inserted  in  the  waistcoat ;  and  opposite 
him  on  the  wall  is  a  piece  of  embroidered  literature, 
framed  and  glazed,  containing  some  moral  distich  or  maxim, 
worked  in  angular  capital  letters,  with  two  trees  or  parrots 
below,  in  their  proper  colors ;  the  whole  concluding  with  an 
ABC  and  numerals,  and  the  name  of  the  fair  industrious, 
expressing  it  to  be  "her  work,  Jan.  14,  1762."  The  rest 
of  the  furniture  consists  of  a  looking-glass  with  carved 
edges,  perhaps  a  settee,  a  hassock  for  the  feet,  a  mat  for 
the  little  dog,  and  a  small  set  of  shelves,  in  which  are 
the  "  Spectator "  and  "  Guardian,"  the  "  Turkish  Spy,"  a 
Bible  and  Prayer-Book,  "  Young's  Night  Thoughts,"  with  a 
piece  of  laceXn  it  to  flatten,  "  Mrs.  Rowe's  Devout  Exer- 
cises of  the  Heart,"  "Mrs.  Glasse's  Cookery,"  and  perhaps 
"  Sir  Charles  Grandison,"  and  "  Clarissa."  «  John  Buncle  " 
is  in  the  closet  among  the  pickles  and  preserves.  The 
clock  is  on  the  landing-place  between  the .  two  room  doors, 
where  it  ticks  audibly  but  quietly;  and  the  landing-place, 
as  well  as  the  stairs,  is  carpeted  to  a  nicety.  The  house 
is  most  in  character,  and  properly  coeval,  if  it  is  in  a 
retired  suburb,  and  strongly  built,  with  wainscot  rather 
than  paper  inside,  and  lockers  in  the  windows.  Before 
the  windows  should  be  some  quivering  poplars.  Here  the 
Old  Lady  receives  a  few  quiet  visitors  to  tea,  and  per- 
haps an  early  game  at  cards:  or  you  may  see  her  going 
out  on  the  same  kind  of  visit  herself,  with  a  light  umbrella 
running  up  into  a  stick  and  crooked  ivory  handle,  and  her 
little  dog,  equally  famous  for  his  love  to  her  and  captious 
antipathy  to  strangers.  Her  grandchildren  dislike  him  on 
holidays,  and  the  boldest  sometimes  ventures  to  give  him 
a  sly  kick  under  the  table.  When  she  returns  at  night, 
she  appears,  if  the  weather  happens  to  be  doubtful,  in  a 
calash ;  and  her  servant  in  pattens,  follows  half  behind  and 
half  at  her  side,  with  a  lantern. 

Her  opinions  are  not   many  nor  new.     She   thinks   the 


Io4  LEIGH  HUNT 

clergyman  a  nice  man.  The  Duke  of  Wellington,  in  he- 
opinion,  is  a  very  great  man ;  bnt  she  has  a  secret  prefer- 
ence for  the  Marquis  of  Granby.  She  thinks  the  young 
women  of  the  present  day  too  forward,  and  the  men  not 
respectful  enough;  but  hopes  her  grandchildren  will  be 
better;  though  she  differs  with  her  daughter  in  several 
points  respecting  their  management.  She  sets  little  value 
on  the  new  accomplishments;  is  a  great  though  delicate 
connoisseur  in  butcher's  meat  and  all  sorts  of  housewifery ; 
and  if  you  mention  waltzes,  expatiates  on  the  grace  and 
fine  breeding  of  the  minuet  She  longs  to  have  seen  one 
danced  by  Sir  Charles  Grandison,  whom  she  almost  con- 
siders as  a  real  person.  She  likes  a  walk  of  a  summer's 
evening,  but  avoids  the  new  streets,  canals,  &c.,  and  some- 
times goes  through  the  churchyard,  where  her  children 
and  her  husband  lie  buried,  serious,  but  not  melancholy. 
She  has  had  three  great  epochs  in  her  life:  her  mar- 
riage,—  her  having  been  at  court,  to  see  the  King  and 
Queen  and  Royal  Family,  —  and  a  compliment  on  her  fig- 
ure she  once  received,  in  passing,  from  Mr.  "Wilkes,  whom 
she  describes  as  a  sad,  loose  man,  but  engaging.  His 
plainness  she  thinks  much  exaggerated.  If  anything  takes 
her  at  a  distance  from  home,  it  is  still  the  court ;  but  she 
seldom  stirs,  even  for  that.  The  last  time  but  one  that 
she  went,  was  to  see  the  Duke  of  Wttrtemberg ;  and  most 
probably  for  the  last  time  of  all,  to  see  the  Princess  Char- 
lotte and  Prince  Leopold.  From  this  beatific  vision  she 
returned  with  the  same  admiration  as  ever  for  the  fine, 
comely  appearance  of  the  Duke  of  York  and  the  rest  of 
the  family,  and  great  delight  at  having  had  a  near  view 
of  the  Princess,  whom  she  speaks  of  with  smiling  pomp 
and  lifted  mittens,  clasping  them  as  passionately  as  she 
can  together,  and  calling  her,  in  a  transport  of  mixed 
loyalty  and  self-love,  a  fine  royal  young  creature,  and 
«  Daughter  of  England." 


THE  OLD  GENTLEMAN.  135 


THE     OLD     GENTLEMAN. 

OUR  Old  Gentleman,  in  order  to  be  exclusively  him- 
self, must  be  either  a  widower  or  a  bachelor.  Suppose 
the  former.  We  do  not  mention  his  precise  age,  which 
would  be  invidious :  nor  whether  he  wears  his  own  hair  or 
a  wig  ;  which  would  be  wanting  in  universality.  If  a  wig, 
it  is  a  compromise  between  the  more  modern  scratch  and 
the  departed  glory  of  the  toupee.  If  his  own  hair,  it  is 
white,  in  spite  of  his  favorite  grandson,  who  used  to  get 
on  the  chair  behind  him,  and  pull  the  silver  hairs  out,  ten 
years  ago.  If  he  is  bald  at  top,  the  hair-dresser,  hovering 
and  breathing  about  him  like  a  second  youth,  takes  care 
to  give  the  bald  place  as  much  powder  as  the  covered , 
in  order  that  lie  may  convey  to  the  sensoriuni  within  a 
pleasing  indistinctness  of  idea  respecting  the  exact  limits 
of  skin  and  hair.  He  is  very  clean  and  neat ;  and,  in 
warm  weather,  is  proud  of  opening  his  waistcoat  half-way 
down,  and  letting  so  much  of  his  frill  be  seen,  in  order  to 
show  his  hardiness  as  well  as  taste.  His  watch  and  shirt- 
buttons  are  of  the  best ;  and  he  does  not  care  if  he  has 
two  rings  on  a  finger.  If  his  watch  ever  failed  him  at 
the  club  or  coffee-house,  he  would  take  a  walk  every  day 
to  the  nearest  clock  of  good  character,  purely  to  keep  it 
right.  He  has  a  cane  at  home,  but  seldom  uses  it,  on 
finding  it  out  of  fashion  with  his  elderly  juniors.  He  has 
a  small  cocked  hat  for  gala  days,  which  he  lifts  higher 
from  his  head  than  the  round  one,  when  bowed  to.  In 
his  pockets  are  two  handkerchiefs  (one  for  the  neck  at 
night-time),  his  spectacles,  and  his  pocket-book.  The 
pocket-book,  among  other  things,  contains  a  receipt  for 
a  cough,  and  some  verses  cut  out  of  an  odd  sheet  of  an 
old  magazine,  on  the  lovely  Duchess  of  A.,  beginning, 

"  When  beauteous  Mira  walks  the  plain  " 


136  LEIGH  HUNT. 

He  intends  this  for  a  commonplace-book  which  he  keeps, 
consisting  of  passages  in  verse  and  prose,  cut  out  of  news- 
papers and  magazines,  and  pasted  in  columns ;  some  of 
them  rather  gay.  His  principal  other  books  are  Shake- 
speare's Plays  and  Milton's  Paradise  Lost ;  the  Spectator, 
the  History  of  England,  the  Works  of  Lady  M.  ~W.  Mon- 
tague, Pope,  and  Churchill ;  Middleton's  Geography ;  the 
Gentleman's  Magazine ;  Sir  John  Sinclair  on  Longevity ; 
several  plays  with  portraits  in  character  ;  Account  of  Eliz- 
abeth Canning,  Memoirs  of  George  Ann  Bellamy,  Poetica 
Amusements  at  Bath-Easton,  Blair's  Works,  Elegant  Ex- 
tracts ;  Junius  as  originally  published  ;  a  few  pamplilets 
on  the  American  War,  and  Lord  George  Gordon,  &c., 
and  one  on  the  French  Revolution.  In  his  sitting-rooms 
are  some  engravings  from  Hogarth  and  Sir  Joshua ;  an 
engraved  portrait  of  the  Marquis  of  Granby ;  ditto  of  M. 
le  Comte  de  Grasse  surrendering  to  Admiral  Rodney ;  a 
humorous  piece  after  Penny ;  and  a  portrait  of  himself, 
painted  by  Sir  Joshua.  His  wife's  portrait  is  in  his  cham- 
ber, looking  upon  his  bed.  She  is  a  little  girl,  stepping 
forward  with  a  smile,  and  a  pointed  toe,  as  if  going  to 
dance.  He  lost  her  when  she  was  sixty. 

The  Old  Gentleman  is  an  early  riser,  because  he  intends 
to  live  at  least  twenty  years  longer.  He  continues  to 
take  tea  for  breakfast,  in  spite  of  what  is  said  against  its 
nervous  effects;  having  been  satisfied  on  that  point  some 
years  ago  by  Dr.  Johnson's  criticism  on  Hanway,  and  a 
great  liking  for  tea  previously.  His  china  cups  and  sau- 
cers have  been  broken  since  his  wife's  death,  all  but  one, 
which  is  religiously  kept  for  his  use.  He  passes  his  morn- 
ing in  -  walking  or  riding,  looking  in  at  auctions,  looking 
after  his  India  bonds  or  some  such  money  securities,  fur- 
thering some  subscription  set  on  foot  by  his  excellent 
friend  Sir  John,  or  cheapening  a  new  old  print  for  his 
portfolio.  He  also  hears  of  the  newspapers ;  not  caring 


THE   OLD   GENTLEMAN.  137 

to  see  them  till  after  dinner  at  the  coffee-house.  He  may 
also  cheapen  a  fish  or  so ;  the  fishmonger  soliciting  his 
doubting  eye  as  he  passes,  with  a  profound  bow  of  recog- 
nition. He  eats  a  pear  before  dinner. 

His  dinner  at  the  coffee-house  is  served  up  to  him  at 
the  accustomed  hour,  in  the  old  accustomed  way,  and  by 
the  accustomed  waiter.  If  William  did  not  bring  it,  the 
fish  would  be  sure  to  be  stale,  and  the  flesh  new.  He 
eats  no  tart ;  or  if  he  ventures  on  a  little,  takes  cheese 
with  it.  You  might  as  soon  attempt  to  persuade  him  out 
of  his  senses  as  that  cheese  is  not  good  for  digestion. 
He  takes  port ;  and  if  he  has  drunk  more  than  usual, 
and  in  a  more  private  place,  may  be  induced,  by  some 
respectful  inquiries  respecting  the  old  style  of  music,  to 
sing  a  song  composed  by  Mr.  Oswald  or  Mr.  Lampe,  such 

as, 

"  Chloe,  by  that  borrowed  kiss/' 
or, 

"  Come,  gentle  god  of  soft  repose," 

or  his  wife's  favorite  ballad,  beginning, 

"  At  Upton  on  the  hill, 
There  lived  a  happy  pair." 

Of  course,  no  such  exploit  can  take  place  in  the  coffee- 
room  ;  but  he  will  canvass  the  theory  of  that  matter  there 
with  you,  or  discuss  the  weather,  or  the  markets,  or  the 
theatres,  or  the  merits  of  "  my  lord  North "  or  "  my  lord 
Rockingham  " ;  for  he  rarely  says  simply,  lord ;  it  is  gen- 
erally "  my  lord,"  trippingly  and  genteelly  off  the  tongue. 
If  alone  after  dinner,  his  great  delight  is  the  newspapfir ; 
which  he  prepares  to  read  by  wiping  his  spectacles,  care- 
fully adjusting  them  on  his  eyes,  and  drawing  the  candle 
close  to  him,  so  as  to  stand  sideways  betwixt  his  ocular 
aim  and  the  small  type.  He  then  holds  the  paper  at 
arm's  length,  and  dropping  his  eyelids  half  down  and  his 


138  LEIGH  HUNT. 

mouth  half  open,  takes  cognizance  of  the  day's  informa- 
tion. If  he  leaves  off,  it  is  only  when  the  door  is  opened 
by  a  new-comer,  or  when  he  suspects  somebody  is  over- 
anxious to  get  the  paper  out  of  his  hand.  On  these  occa- 
sions he  gives  an  important  hem  !  or  so  ;  and  resumes. 

In  the  evening,  our  Old  Gentleman  is  fond  of  going  to 
the  theatre,  or  of  having  a  game  of  cards.  If  he  enjoys 
the  latter  at  his  own  house  or  lodgings,  he  likes  to  pltiy 
with  some  friends  whom  he  has  known  for  many  years ; 
but  an  elderly  stranger  may  be  introduced,  if  quiet  and 
scientific ;  and  the  privilege  is  extended  to  younger  men 
of  letters ;  who,  if  ill  players,  are  good  losers.  Not  that 
he  is  a  miser,  but  to  win  money  at  cards  is  like  proving 
his  victory  by  getting  the  baggage ;  and  to  win  of  a 
younger  man  is  a  substitute  for  his  not  being  able  to  beat 
him  at  rackets.  He  breaks  up  early,  whether  at  home 
or  abroad. 

At  the  theatre,  he  likes  a  front  row  in  the  pit.  He 
comes  early,  if  he  can  do  so  without  getting  into  a  squeeze, 
and  sits  patiently  waiting  for  the  drawing  up  of  the  cur- 
tain, with  his  hands  placidly  lying  one  over  the  other  on 
the  top  of  his  stick.  He  generously  admires  some  of 
the  best  performers,  but  thinks  them  far  inferior  to  Gar- 
rick,  Woodward,  and  Clive.  During  splendid  scenes,  he 
is  anxious  that  the  little  boy  should  see. 

He  has  been  induced  to  look  in  at  Vauxhall  again,  but 
likes  it  still  less  than  he  did  years  back,  and  cannot  bear 
it  in  comparison  with  Ranelagh.  He  thinks  everything 
looks  poor,  flaring,  and  jaded.  "  Ah ! "  says  he,  with  a 
sort  of  triumphant  sigh,  "  Ranelagh  was  a  noble  place ! 
Such  taste,  such  elegance,  such  beauty !  There  was  the 
Duchess  of  A.,  the  finest  woman  in  England,  sir ;  and 
Mrs.  L.,  a  mighty  fine  creature ;  and  Lady  Susan  what's 
her  name,  that  had  that  unfortunate  affair  with  Sir  Charles. 
Sir,  they  came  swimming  by  you  like  the  swans." 


THE   OLD   GENTLEMAN.  139 

The  Old  Gentleman  is  very  particular  in  having  his 
slippers  ready  for  him  at  the  fire,  whin  he  comes 
home.  He  is  also  extremely  choice  in  his  stuff,  and  de- 
lights to  get  a  fresh  box-full  in  Tavistock  Street,  in  his 
way  to  the  theatre.  His  box  is  a  curiosity  from  India. 
He  calls  favorite  young  ladies  by  their  Christian  names, 
however  slightly  acquainted  with  them ;  and  has  a  privi 
iege  of  saluting  all  brides,  mothers,  and  indeed  every 
species  of  lady,  on  the  least  holiday  occasion.  If  the  hus- 
band, for  instance,  has  met  with  a  piece  of  luck,  he 
instantly  moves  forward,  and  gravely  kisses  the  wife  on 
the  cheek.  The  wife  then  says,  "  My  niece,  sir,  from 
the  country  *Nj  and  he  kisses  the  niece.  The  niece,  see- 
ing her  cousin  biting  her  lips  at  the  joke,  says,  "  My 
.cousin  Harriet,  sir "  ;  and  he  kisses  the  cousin.  He 
tk  never  recollects  such  weather,"  except  during  the  "  Great 
Frost,"  or  when  he  rode  down  with  "  Jack  Skrimshire  to 
Xewinarket."  He  grows  young  again  in  liis  little  grand- 
children, especially  the  one  which  he  thinks  most  like  him- 
self; which  is  the  handsomest.  Yet  he  likes  best,  perhaps, 
the  one  most  resembling  his  wife  ;  and  will  sit  with  him 
on  his  lap,  holding  his  hand  in  silence,  for  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  together.  He  plays  most  tricks  with  the  former, 
and  makes  him  sneeze.  He  asks  little  boys  in  general 
who  was  the  father  of  Zebedee's  children.  If  his  grand- 
sons are  at  school,  he  often  goes  to  see  them ;  and  makes 
them  blush  by  telling  the  master  or  the  upper  scholars, 
that  they  are  fine  boys,  and  of  a  precocious  genius.  He 
is  much  struck  when  an  old  acquaintance  dies,  but  adds 
that  lie  lived  too  fast;  and  that  poor  Bob  was  a  sad  dog 
in  his  youth ;  "  a  very  sad  dog,  sir ;  mightily  set  upon 
.1  short  life  and  a  merry  one." 

When  he  gets  very  old  indeed,  he  will  sit  for  whole 
evenings,  and  say  little  or  nothing ;  but  informs  you,  thai 
there  is  Mrs.  Jones  (the  housekeeper)  —  "  She  '11  talk." 


A  SABBATH   SUMMER  NOON 

BY  WILLIAM   MOTHERWELL. 


THE  calmness  of  this  noontide  hour, 
The  shadow  of  this  wood, 
The  fragrance  of  each  wilding  flower, 

Are  marvellously  good ; 
O,  here  crazed  spirits  breathe  the  balm 
Of  Nature's  solitude ! 

It  is  a  most  delicious  calm 
That  resteth  everywhere,  — 

The  holiness  of  soul-sung  psalm, 
Of  felt  but  voiceless  prayer ! 

With  hearts  too  full  to  speak  their  bliss. 
God's  creatures  silent  are. 

They  silent  are ;  but  not  the  less 

In  this  most  tranquil  hour 
Of  deep,  unbroken  dreaminess, 

They  own  that  Love  and  Power 
Which,  like  the  softest  sunshine,  rests 

On  every  leaf  and  flower. 

How  silent  are  the  song-filled  nests 
That  crowd  this  drowsy  tree,  — 


A  SABBATH  SUMMER  NOON.  141 

How  mute  is  every  feathered  breast 

That  swelled  with  melody ! 
And  yet  bright  bead-like  eyes  declare 

This  hour  is  ecstasy. 

Heart  forth !  as  uncaged  bird  through  ail 

And  mingle  in  the  tide 
Of  blessed  things,  that,  lacking  care, 

Now  full  of  beauty  glide 
Around  thee,  in  their  angel  hues 

Of  joy  and  sinless  pride. 

Here,  on  this  green  bank  that  o'erviews 

The  far-retreating  glen, 
Beneath  the  spreading  beech-tree  muse, 

Of  all  within  thy  ken  ; 
For  lovelier  scene  shall  never  break 

'On  thy  dimmed  sight  again. 

Slow  stealing  from  the  tangled  brake 

That  skirts  the  distant  hill, 
With  noiseless  hoof,  two  bright  fawns  make 

For  yonder  lapsing  rill ; 
Meek  children  of  the  forest  gloom, 

Drink  on,  and  fear  no  ill ! 

And  buried  in  the  yellow  broom 
That  crowns  the  neighboring  height, 

Couches  a  loutish  shepherd  groom, 
With  all  his  flocks  in  sight ; 

Which  dot  the  green  braes  gloriously 
With  spots  of  living  light. 

It  is  a  sight  that  filleth  me 
With  meditative  joy, 


142  WILLIAM  MOTHER  WELL. 

To  mark  these  dumb  things  curiously 
Crowd  round  their  guardian  boy ; 

As  if  they  felt  this  Sabbath  hour 
Of  bliss  lacked  all  alloy. 

I  bend  me  towards  the  tiny  flower, 
That  underneath  this  tree 

Opens  its  little  breast  of  sweets 
In  meekest  modesty, 

And  breathes  the  eloquence  of  love 
In  muteness,  Lord !  to  thee. 

There  is  no  breath  of  wind  to  move 
The  flag-like  leaves,  that  spread 

Their  grateful  shadow  far  above 
This  turf-supported  head ; 

All  sounds  are  gone,  —  all  murmuringe 
With  living  nature  wed. 


n 


The  babbling  of  the  clear  well-springs*, 
The  whisperings  of  the  trees, 

And  all  the  cheerful  jargonings 
Of  feathered  hearts  at  ease, 

That  whilom  filled  the  vocal  wood, 
Have  hushed  their  minstrelsies. 

The  silentness  of  night  doth  brood 
O'er  this  bright  summer  noon ; 

And  Nature,  in  her  holiest  mood, 
Doth  all  things  well  attune 

To  joy,  in  the  religious  dreams 
Of  green  and  leafy  June. 

Far  down  the  glen  in  distance  gleams 
The  hamlet's  tapering  spire, 


A  SABBATH  SUMMER  NOON.  143 

And,  glittering  in  meridial  beams, 

Its  vane  is  tongued  with  fire ; 
And  hark  how  sweet  its  silvery  bell,  — 

And  hark  the  rustic  choir ! 

The  holy  sounds  float  up  the  dell 

To  fill  my  ravished  ear, 
And  now  the  glorious  anthems  swell 

Of  worshippers  sincere,  — 
Of  hearts  bowed  in  the  dust,  that  shed 

Faith's  penitential  tear. 

Dear  Lord !  thy  shadow  is  forth  spread 

On  all  mine  eye  can  see ; 
And,  filled  at  the  pure  fountain-head 

Of  deepest  piety, 
My  heart  loves  all  created  things, 

And  travels  home  to  thee. 

Around  me  while  the  sunshine  flings 

A  flood  of  mocky  gold, 
My  chastened  spirit  once  more  sings, 

As  it  was  wont  of  old, 
That  lay  of  gratitude  which  burst 

From  young  heart  uncontrolled. 

When  in  the  midst  of  nature  nursed, 

Sweet  influences  fell 
On  chilly  hearts  that  were  athirst, 

Like  soft  dews  in  the  bell 
Of  tender  flowers,  that  bowed  their  heads 

And  breathed  a  fresher  smell,  — 

So,  even  now  this  hour  hath  sped 
In  rapturous  thought  o'er  me. 


144  WILLIAM  MOTHER  WELL. 

Feeling  myself  with  nature  wed,  — 

A  holy  mystery,  — 
A  part  of  earth,  a  part  of  heaven, 

A  part,  Great  God !  of  thee. 

Fast  fade  the  cares  of  life's  dull  sweven, 

They  perish  as  the  weed, 
While  unto  me  the  power  is  given, 

A  moral  deep  to  read 
In  every  silent  throe  of  mind 

External  beauties  breed. 


THE  INCENDIARY. 

BY  MARY  RUSSELL  MITFORD. 

NO  one  that  had  the  misfortune  to  reside  during  the  last 
winter  in  the  disturbed  districts  of  the  south  of  Eng- 
land will  ever  forget  the  awful  impression  of  .that  terrible 
time.  The  stilly  gatherings  of  the  misguided  peasantry 
amongst,  the  wild  hills,  partly  heath  and  partly  woodland, 
of  which  so  much  of  the  northern  part  of  Hampshire  is  com- 
posed,—  dropping  in  one  by  one,  and  two  by  two  in  the 
gloom  of  evening,  or  the  dim  twilight  of  a  November  morn- 
ing ;  or  the  open  and  noisy  meetings  of  determined  men  at 
noontide  in  the  streets  and  greens  of  our  Berkshire  villages, 
and  even  sometimes  in  the  very  churchyards,  sallying  forth 
in  small  but  resolute  numbers  to  collect  money  or  destroy 
machinery,  and  compelling  or  persuading  their  fellow-labor- 
ers to  join  them  at  every  farm  they  visited ;  or  the  sudden 
appearance  and  disappearance  of  these  large  bodies,  who 
sometimes  remained  together  to  the  amount  of  several  hun- 
dreds for  many  days,  and  sometimes  dispersed,  one  scarcely 
knew  how,  in  a  few  hours ;  their  daylight  marches  on  the 
high  road,  regular  and  orderly  as  those  of  an  army,  or 
their  midnight  visits  to  lonely  houses,  lawless  and  terrific  as 
the  descent  of  pirates  or  the  incursions  of  banditti ;  —  all 
brought  close  to  us  a  state  of  things  which  we  never  thought 
to  have  witnessed  in  peaceful  and  happy  England.  In  the 
sister  island,  indeed,  we  had  read  of  such  horrors,  but  now 
they  were  brought  home  to  our  very  household  hearths  ;  we 
10 


146  MARY  RUSSELL  MITFORD. 

tasted  of  fear,  the  bitterest  cup  that  an  imaginative  woman 
can  taste,  in  all  its  agonizing  varieties  ;  and  felt,  by  sad 
experience,  the  tremendous  difference  between  that  distant 
report  of  danger,  with  which  we  had  &o  often  fancied  that 
we  sympathized,  and  the  actual  presence  of  danger  itself. 
Such  events  are  salutary,  inasmuch  as  they  show  to  the 
human  heart  its  own  desperate  self-deceit.  I  could  not  but 
smile  at  the  many  pretty  letters  of  condolence  and  fellow- 
feeling  which  I  received  from  writers  who  wrote  far  too  well 
to  feel  anything,  who  most  evidently  felt  nothing ;  but  the 
smile  was  a  melancholy  one,  —  for  I  recollected  how  often, 
not  intending  to  feign,  or  suspecting  that  I  was  feigning,  I 
myself  had  written  such. 

Nor  were  the  preparations  for  defence,  however  neces- 
sary, less  shocking  than  the  apprehensions  of  attack.  The 
hourly  visits  of  bustling  parish  officers,  bristling  with  impor- 
tance (for  our  village,  though  in  the  centre  of  the  insur- 
gents, continued  uncontaminated,  —  "  faithful  amidst  the  un- 
faithful found,"  —  and  was,  therefore,  quite  a  rallying-point 
for  loyal  men  and  true)  ;  the  swearing  in  of  whole  regi- 
ments of  petty  constables  ;  the  stationary  watchmen,  who 
every  hour,  to  prove  their  vigilance,  sent  in  some  poor 
wretch,  beggar  or  match-seller,  or  rambling  child,  under  the 
denomination  of  suspicious  persons ;  the  mounted  patrol, 
whose  deep  "  All 's  well ! "  which  ought  to  have  been  consola- 
tory, was  about  the  most  alarming  of  all  alarming  sounds ; 
the  soldiers,  transported  from  place  to  place  in  carts  the  bet- 
ter to  catch  the  rogues,  whose  local  knowledge  gave  them 
great  advantage  in  a  dispersal ;  the  grave  processions  of 
magistrates  and  gentlemen  on  horseback  j  and  above  all, 
the  nightly  collecting  of  arms  and  armed  men  within  our 
own  dwelling,  kept  up  a  continual  sense  of  nervous  inquie- 
tude. 

Fearful,  however,  as  were  the  realities,  the  rumors  were 
a  hundred-fold  more  alarming.  Not  an  hour  passed,  but. 


THE  INCENDIARY.  147 

from  some  quarter  or  other,  reports  came  pouring  in  of  mobs 
gathering,  mobs  assembled,  mobs  marching  upon  us.  Now 
the  high  roads  were  blockaded  by  the  rioters,  travellers 
murdered,  soldiers  defeated,  and  the  magistrates,  who  had 
gone  out  to  meet  and  harangue  them,  themselves  surrounded 
and  taken  by  the  desperate  multitude.  Now  the  artisans  — 
the  commons,  so  to  say,  of  B.  —  had  risen  to  join  the  peas- 
antry, driving  out  the  gentry  and  tradespeople,  while  they 
took  possession  of  their  houses  and  property,  and  only  de- 
taining the  mayor  and  aldermen  as  hostages.  Now  that 
illustrious  town  held  loyal,  but  was  besieged.  Now  the  mob 
had  carried  the  place  ;  and  arti.-ans,  constables,  tradespeople, 
soldiers,  and  magistrates,  the  mayor  and  corporation  included, 
were  murdered  to  a  man,  to  say  nothing  of  women  and  chil- 
dren ;  the  market-place  running  with  blood,  and  the  town- 
hall  piled  with  dead  bodies.  This  last  rumor,  which  was 
much  to  the  taste  of  our  villagers,  actually  prevailed  for 
several  hours ;  terrified  maid-servants  ran  shrieking  about 
the  house,  and  every  corner  of  the  village  street  realized 
Shakespeare's  picture  of  "  a  smith  swallowing  a  tailor's 
news." 

So  passed  the  short  winter's  day.  With  the  approach  of 
night  came  fresh  sorrows  ;  the  red  glow  of  fires  gleaming  on 
the  horizon,  and  mounting  into  the  middle  sky ;  the  tolling 
of  bells  ;  and  the  rumbling  sound  of  the  engines  clattering 
along  from  place  to  place,  and  often,  too  often,  rendered 
useless  by  the  cutting  of  the  pipes  after  they  had  begun  to 
play.  —  a  dreadful  aggravation  of  the  calamity,  since  it 
proved  that  among  those  who  assembled,  professedly  to  help, 
were  to  be  found  favorers  and  abettors  of  the  concealed  in- 
cendiaries. O  the  horrors  of  those  fires,  —  breaking  forth 
night  after  night,  sudden,  yet  expected,  always  seeming 
nearer  than  they  actually  were,  and  always  said  to  have 
been  more  mischievous  to  life  and  property  than  they  actu- 
ally had  been !  Mischievous  enough  they  were,  Heaven 


148  MARY   RUSSELL   MITFORD. 

knows !  A  terrible  and  unholy  abuse  of  the  most  beau- 
tiful and  comfortable  of  the  elements!  —  a  sinful  destruc- 
tion of  the  bounties  of  Providence  !  —  an  awful  crime 
against  God  and  man !  Shocking  it  was  to  behold  the 
peasantry  of  England  becoming  familiarized  with  this 
tremendous  power  of  evil,  —  this  desperate,  yet  most  cow- 
\rdly  sin  ! 

The  blow  seemed  to  fall,  too,  just  where  it  might  least  have 
»een  looked  for,  —  on  the  unoffending,  the  charitable,  the 
\ma ;  on  those  who  were  known  only  as  the  laborer's  friends ; 
*u  impoverish  whom  was  to  take  succor,  assistance  and  pro- 
ttiCiioii  irom  the  poor.  One  of  the  objects  of  attack  in  our 
uvrn  immediate  neighborhood  was  a  widow  lady,  between 
eignty  and  ninety,  the  best  of  the  good,  the  kindest  of  the 
kind.  Occvarences  like  this  were  in  every  way  dreadful. 
They  made  us  fear  (and  such  fear  is  a  revengeful  passion, 
and  comes  ne^r  to  hate)  the  larger  half  of  our  species 
They  weakened  our  faith  in  human  nature. 

The  revulsion  was,  however,  close  at  hand.  A  time  came 
which  changed  the  current  of  our  feelings,  —  a  time  of  ret- 
ribution. The  fired  weie  quenched ;  the  riots  were  put- 
down  ;  the  chief  of  the  rwters  were  taken.  Examination 
and  commitment  were  the  older  of  the  day ;  the  crowded 
jails  groaned  with  their  overload  of  wretched  prisoners  ;  sol- 
diers were  posted  at  every  avenue  to  guard  against  possible 
escape;  and  every  door  was  watched  night  and  day  by 
miserable  women,  the  wives,  mothers,  or  daughters  of  the 
culprits,  praying  for  admission  to  their  unfortunate  relatives. 
The  danger  was  fairly  over,  and  pity  had  succeeded  to 
fear. 

Then,  above  all,  came  the  special  commission :  the  judges 
in  threefold  dignity ;  the  array  of  counsel ;  the  crowded 
court ;  the  solemn  trial ;  the  awful  sentence  ;  —  all  the  more 
impressive  from  the  merciful  feeling  which  pervaded  the 
government,  the  counsel,  and  the  court.  My  father,  a  very 


THE  INCENDIARY.  149 

old  magistrate,  being  chairman  of  the  bench,  as  well  as  one 
of  the  grand  jury,  and  the  then  high  sheriff,  with  whom  it 
is  every  way  an  honor  to  claim  acquaintance,  being  his  inti- 
mate friend,  I  saw  and  knew  more  of  the  proceedings  of 
this  stirring  time  than  usually  falls  to  the  lot  of  women,  and 
took  a  deep  interest  in  proceedings  which  had  in  them  a 
thrilling  excitement,  as  far  beyond  acted  tragedy  as  truth 
is  beyond  fiction. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  hushed  silence  of  the  auditors,  a 
dense  mass  of  human  bodies,  the  heads  only  visible,  ranged 
tier  over  tier  to  the  very  ceiling  of  the  lofty  hall ;  the  rare 
and  striking  importance  which  that  silence  and  the  awful- 
ness  of  the  occasion  gave  to  the  mere  official  forms  of  a 
court  of  justice,  generally  so  hastily  slurred  over  and  slightly 
attended  to;  the  unusual  seriousness  of  the  counsel;  the 
watchful  gravity  of  the  judges;  and,  more  than  all,  the 
appearance  of  the  prisoners  themselves,  belonging  mostly  to 
the  younger  classes  of  the  peasantry,  such  men  as  one  is 
accustomed  to  see  in  the  fields,  on  the  road,  or  the  cricket- 
ground,  with  sunburnt  faces,  and  a  total  absence  of  reflection 
or  care,  but  who  now,  under  the  influence  of  a  keen  and  bit- 
ter anxiety,  had  acquired  not  only  the  sallow  paleness  proper 
to  a  prison,  but  the  look  of  suffering  and  of  thought,  the 
brows  contracted  and  brought  low  over  the  eyes,  the  general 
sharpness  of  feature  and  elongation  of  countenance,  which 
give  an  expression  of  intellect,  a  certain  momentary  eleva- 
tion, even  to  the  commonest  and  most  vacant  of  human  faces. 
Such  is  the  power  of  an  absorbing  passion,  a  great  and  en- 
grossing grief.  One  man  only  amongst  the  large  number 
whom  I  heard  arraigned  (for  they  were  brought  out  by  tens 
and  by  twenties)  would,  perhaps,  under  other  circumstances, 
have  been  accounted  handsome ;  yet  a  painter  would  at  that 
moment  have  found  studies  in  many. 

I  shall  never  forget,  either,  the  impression  made  on  my 
mind  by  one  of  the  witnesses.  Several  men  had  been  ar- 


150  MARY  RUSSELL  MITFORD. 

raigned  together  for  machine-breaking.  All  but  one  of  them 
had  employed  counsel  for  their  defence,  and  under  their 
direction  had  called  witnesses  to  character,  the  most  respect- 
able whom  they  could  find,  —  the  clergy  and  overseers  of 
their  respective  parishes,  for  example,  —  masters  with  whom 
they  had  lived,  neighboring  farmers  or  gentry,  or  even 
magistrates,  —  all  that  they  could  muster  to  grace  or  credit 
their  cause.  One  poor  man  alone  had  retained  no  counsel, 
offered  no  defence,  called  no  witness,  though  the  evidence 
against  him  was  by  no  means  so  strong  as  that  against  his 
fellow-prisoners ;  and  it  was  clear  that  his  was  exactly  the 
case  in  which  testimony  to  character  would  be  of  much 
avail.  The  defences  had  ended,  and  the  judge  was  begin- 
ning to  sum  up,  when  suddenly  a  tall,  gaunt,  upright  figure, 
with  a  calm,  thoughtful  brow,  and  a  determined  but  most 
respectful  demeanor,  appeared  in  the  witnesses'  box.  He 
was  dressed  in  a  smock-frock,  and  was  clean  and  respect- 
able in ,  appearance,  but  evidently  poor.  The  judge  inter- 
rupted himself  in  his  charge  to  inquire  the  man's  business ; 
and  hearing  that  he  was  a  voluntary  witness  for  the  unde- 
fended prisoner,  proceeded  to  question  him,  when  the  fol- 
lowing dialogue  took  place.  The  witness's  replies,  which 
seemed  to  me  then,  and  still  do  so,  very  striking  from  their 
directness  and  manliness,  were  delivered  with  the  same 
humble  boldness  of  tone  and  manner  that  characterized  the 
words. 

Judge.     "  You  are  a  witness  for  the  prisoner,  an  unsum- 
moned  witness  ?  " 

"  I  am,  my  lord.     I  heard  that  he  was  to  be  tried  to-day, 
and  have  walked  twenty  miles  to  speak  the  truth  of  him,  as 
one  poor  man  may  do  of  another." 
"  What  is  your  situation  in  life  ?  " 
"  A  laborer,  my  lord ;  nothing  but  a  day-laborer." 
"  How  long  have  you  known  the  prisoner  ?  " 
"As  long  as  I  have  known  anything.     We  were   play- 


THE   INCENDIARY.  151 

mates  together,  went  to  the  same  school,  have  lived  in  the 
same  parish.     I  have  known  him  all  my  life." 

"  And  what,  character  has  he  borne  ?  " 

"As  good  a  character,  my  lord,  as  a  man  need  work 
under." 

It  is  pleasant  to  add,  that  this  poor  man's  humble  testi- 
mony was  read  from  the  judge's  notes,  and  mentioned  in  the 
judge's  charge,  with  full  as  much  respect,  perhaps  a  little 
more,  than  the  evidence  of  clergymen  and  magistrates  for 
the  rest  of  the  accused;  and  that,  principally  from  this 
direct  and  simple  tribute  to  his  character,  the  prisoner  in 
question  was  acquitted. 

To  return,*  Tiowever,  from  my  evil  habit  of  digressing  (if 
I  may  use  an  Irish  phrase)  before  I  begin,  and  making  my 
introduction  longer  than  my  story,  a  simple  sin  to  which  in 
many  instances,  and  especially  in  this,  I  am  fain  to  plead 
guilty;  —  to  come  back  to  my  title  and  my  subject.  —  I 
must  inform  my  courteous  readers,  that  the  case  of  arson 
which  attracted  most  attention  and  excited  most  interest  in 
this  part  of  the  country,  was  the  conflagration  of  certain 
ricks,  barns,  and  farm-buildings,  in  the  occupation  of  Rich- 
ard Mayne ;  and  that,  not  so  much  from  the  value  of  the 
property  consumed  (though  that  value  was  considerable),  as 
on  account  of  the  character  and  situation  of  the  prisoner, 
whom,  after  a  long  examination,  the  magistrates  found  them- 
selves compelled  to  commit  for  the  offence.  I  did  not  hear 
this  trial,  the  affair  having  occurred  in  the  neighboring  coun- 
ty, and  do  not,  therefore,  vouch  for  "  the  truth,  the  whok' 
truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth,"  as  one  does  when  an  ear- 
witness  ;  but  the  general  outline  of  the  story  will  suffice  for 
our  purpose. 

Richard  Mayne  was  a  wealthy  yeoman  of  the  old  school, 
sturdy,  boisterous,  bold,  and  kind,  always  generous,  and  gen- 
erally good-natured,  but  cross-grained  and  obstinate  by  fits, 
and  sometimes  purse-proud,  —  after  the  fashion  of  men  who 


152  MARY  RUSSELL  MITFORD. 

have  made  monej  by  their  own  industry  and  shrewdness, 
He  had  married  late  in  life,  and  above  him  in  station,  and 
had  now  been  for  two  or  three  years  a  widower,  with  one 
only  daughter,  a  girl  of  nineteen,  of  whom  he  was  almost  as 
fond  as  of  his  greyhound  Mayfly,  and  for  pretty  much  the 
same  reason,  —  that  both  were  beautiful  and  gentle,  and  his 
own,  and  both  admired  and  coveted  by  others,  —  that  May 
ny  had  won  three  cups,  and  that  Lucy  had  refused  four 
offers. 

A  sweet  and  graceful  creature  was  Lucy  Mayne.  Her 
mother,  a  refined  and  cultivated  woman,  the  daughter  of  an 
unbeneficed  clergyman,  had  communicated,  perhaps  uncon- 
sciously, much  of  her  own  taste  to  her  daughter.  It  is  true, 
that  most  young  ladies,  even  of  her  own  station,  would  have 
looked  with  great  contempt  on  Lucy's  acquirements,  who 
neither  played  nor  drew,  and  was  wholly,  in  the  phrase  of 
the  day,  unaccomplished;  but  then  she  read  Shakespeare 
and  Milton,  and  the  poets  and  prose-writers  of  the  Jameses' 
and  Charleses'  times,  with  a  perception  and  relish  of  their 
beauty  very  uncommon  in  a  damsel  under  twenty;  and 
when  her  father  boasted  of  his  Lucy  as  the  cleverest  as  well 
as  the  prettiest  lass  within  ten  miles,  he  was  not  so  far 
wrong  as  many  of  his  hearers  were  apt  to  think  him. 

After  all,  the  person  to  whom  Lucy's  education  owed 
most  was  a  relation  of  her  mother's,  a  poor  relation,  who, 
being  left  a  widow  with  two  children  almost  totally  destitute, 
was  permitted  by  Richard  Mayne  to  occupy  one  end  of  a 
small  farm-house,  about  a  mile  from  the  old  substantial 
manorial  residence  which  he  himself  inhabited,  whilst  he 
farmed  the  land  belonging  to  both.  Nothing  could  ex- 
ceed his  kindness  to  the  widow  and  her  family ;  and  Mrs. 
Owen,  a  delicate  and  broken-spirited  woman,  who  had  known 
better  days,  and  was  now  left  with  a  sickly  daughter  and  a 
promising  son  dependent  on  the  precarious  charity  of  rela- 
tives and  friends,  found  in  the  free-handed  and  open-heaited 


THE  INCENDIARY.  153 

farmer  and  his  charming  little  girl  her  only  comfort.  He 
even  restored  to  her  the  blessing  of  her  son's  society,  who 
had  hitherto  earned  his  living  by  writing  for  an  attorney  in 
the  neighboring  town,  but  whom  her  wealthy  kinsman  now 
brought  home  to  her,  and  established  as  the  present  assist- 
ant and  future  successor  of  the  master  of  a  well-endowed 
grammar-school  in  the  parish,  Farmer  Mayne  being  one 
of  the  trustees,  and  all-powerful  with  the  other  function- 
aries joined  in  the  trust,  and  the  then  schoolmaster  in  so 
wretched  a  state  of  health  as  almost  to  insure  a  speedy 
vacancy. 

In  most  instances,  such  an  exertion  of  an  assumed  rather 
than  a  legitimate  authority,  would  have  occasioned  no  small 
prejudice  against  the  party  protected  ;  but  Philip  Owen  was 
not  to  be  made  unpopular,  even  by  the  unpopularity  of  his 
patron.  Gentle,  amiable,  true,  and  kind,  —  kind,  both  in 
word  and  deed,  —  it  was  found  absolutely  impossible  to  dis- 
like him.  He  was  clever,  too,  very  clever,  with  a  remark- 
able aptitude  for  teaching,  as  both  parents  and  boys  soon 
found  to  their  mutual  satisfaction ;  for  the  progress  of  one 
half-year  of  his  instruction  equalled  that  made  hi  a  twelve- 
month under  the  old  regime.  He  must  also,  one  should 
think,  have  been  fond  of  teaching,  for,  after  a  hard  day's 
fagging  at  Latin  and  English,  and  writing,  and  accounts, 
and  all  the  drudgery  of  a  boys'  school,  he  would  make  a 
circuit  of  a  mile  and  a  half  home  in  order  to  give  Lucy 
Mayne  a  lesson  in  French  or  Italian.  For  a  certain- 
ty, Philip  Owen  must  have  had  a  strong  natural  turn  for 
playing  the  pedagogue,  or  he  never  would  have  gone  so  far 
out  of  his  way  just  to  read  Fenelon  and  Alfieri  with  Lucy 
Mayne. 

So  for  two  happy  years  matters  continued.  At  the  expi- 
ration of  that  time,  just  as  the  old  schoolmaster,  who  de- 
clared that  nothing  but  Philip's  attention  had  kept  him  alive 
so  long,  was  evidently  on  his  death-bed,  Farmer  Maj-,e  sud- 


154  MARY  RUSSELL  MITFORD. 

denly  turned  Mrs.  Owen,  her  son,  and  her  sick  daughter  out 
of  the  house,  which,  by  his  permission,  they  had  hitherto 
occupied ;  and  declared  publicly,  that  whilst  he  held  an 
acre  of  land  in  the  parish,  Philip  Owen  should  never  be 
elected  master  of  the  grammar-school,  —  a  threat  which 
there  was  no  doubt  of  his  being  able  to  carry  into  effect. 
The  young  man,  however,  stood  his  ground  ;  and  sending 
off  his  mother  and  sister  to  an  uncle  in  Wales,  who  had 
lately  written  kindly  to  them,  hired  a  room  at  a  cottage  in 
the  village,  determined  to  try  the  event  of  an  election,  which 
the  languishing  state  of  the  incumbent  rendered  inevitable. 

The  cause  of  Farmer  Mayne's  inveterate  dislike  to  one 
whom  he  had  so  warmly  protected,  and  whose  conduct,  man- 
ners, and  temper  had  procured  him  friends  wherever  lie  was 
known,  nobody  could  assign  with  any  certainty.  Perhaps 
he  had  unwittingly  trodden  on  Mayfly's  foot,  or  had  opposed 
some  prejudice  of  her  master's,  —  but  his  general  careful- 
ness not  to  hurt  anything,  or  offend  anybody,  rendered  either 
of  these  conjectures  equally  improbable  ;  —  perhaps  he  had 
been  found  only  too  amiable  by  the  farmer's  other  pet,  — 
those  lessons  in  languages  were  dangerous  things  !  —  and 
when  Lucy  was  seen  at  church  with  a  pale  face  and  red 
eyes,  and  when  his  landlord  Squire  Hawkins's  blood-hunter 
was  seen  every  day  at  Farmer  Mayne's  door,  it  became  cur- 
rently reported  and  confidently  believed,  that  the  cause  oi 
the  quarrel  was  a  love  affair  between  the  cousins,  which  the 
farmer  was  determined  to  break  off,  in  order  to  bestow  his 
daughter  on  the  young  lord  of  the  manor. 

Affairs  had  been  in  this  posture  for  about  a  fortnight,  and 
the  old  schoolmaster  was  just  dead,  when  a  fire  broke  out  in 
the  rick-yard  of  Farley  Court,  and  Philip  Owen  was  appre- 
hended and  committed  as  the  incendiary !  The  astonish- 
ment of  the  neighborhood  was  excessive ;  the  rector  and 
half  the  farmers  of  the  place  offered  to  become  bail ;  but  the 
offence  was  not  bailable ;  and  the  only  consolation  left  for 


THE  INCENDIARY.  155 

the  friends  '>i  the  unhappy  young  man,  was  the  knowledge 
that  the  trial  would  speedily  come  on,  and  their  internal 
conviction  that  an  acquittal  was  certain. 

As  time  wore  on,  however,  their  confidence  diminished. 
The  evidence  against  him  was  terribly  strong.  He  had  been 
observed  lurking  about  the  rick-yard  with  a  lantern,  in 
which  a  light  was  burning,  by  a  lad  in  the  employ  of 
Farmer  Mayne,  who  had  gone  thither  for  hay  to  fodder  his 
cattle,  about  an  hour  before  the  fire  broke  out.  At  eleven 
o'clock  the  haystack  was  on  fire,  and  at  ten  Robert  Doyle 
had  mentioned  to  James  White,  another  boy  in  Farmer 
Mayne's  service,  that  he  had  seen  Mr.  Philip  Owen  behind 
the  great  rick.%  Farmer  Mayne  himself  had  met  him  at 
half  past  ten  (as  he  was  returning  from  B.  market)  in  the 
lane  leading  from  the  rick-yard  towards  the  village,  and  had 
observed  him  throw  something  he  held  in  his  hand  into  the 
ditch.  Humphry  Harris,  a  constable  employed  to  seek  for 
evidence,  had  found  the  next  morning  a  lantern,  answering 
to  that  described  by  Robert  Doyle,  in  the  part  of  the  ditch 
indicated  by  Farmer  Mayne,  which  Thomas  Brown,  the  vil- 
lage shopkeeper,  in  whose  house  Owen  slept,  identified  as 
having  lent  to  his  lodger  in  the  early  part  of  the  evening. 
A  silver  pencil,  given  to  Owen  by  the  mother  of  one  of  his 
pupils,  and  bearing  his  full  name  on  the  seal  at  the  end,  was 
found  close  to  where  the  fire  was  discovered ;  and,  to  crown 
all,  the  curate  of  the  village,  with  whom  the  young  man's 
talents  and  character  had  rendered  him  a  deserved  favorite, 
had  unwillingly  deposed  that  he  had  said  "it  might  be  in  his 
power  to  take  a  great  revenge  on  Farmer  Mayne,"  or  words 
to  that  effect ;  whilst  a  letter  was  produced  from  the  accused 
to  the  farmer  himself,  intimating  that  one  day  he  would  be 
sorry  for  the  oppression  which  he  had  exercised  towards 
him  and  his.  These  two  last  facts  were  much  relied  upon 
as  evincing  malice,  and  implying  a  purpose  of  revenge  from 
the  accused  towards  the  prosecutor;  yet  there  were  many 


I5t)  MARY  RUSSELL  MITFORD. 

who  thought  that  the  previous  circumstances  might  well 
account  for  them  without  reference  to  the  present  occur- 
rence, and  that  the  conflagration  of  the  ricks  and  farm- 
buildings  might,  under  the  spirit  of  the  time  (for  fires  were 
raging  every  night  in  the  surrounding  villages),  be  merely  a 
remarkable  coincidence.  The  young  man  himself  simply 
denied  the  fact  of  setting  fire  to  any  part  of  the  property  or 
premises ;  inquired  earnestly  whether  any  lives  had  been 
lost,  and  still  more  earnestly  after  the  health  of  Miss  Lucy  ; 
and  on  finding  that  she  had  been  confined  to  her  bed  by 
fever  and  delirium,  occasioned,  as  was  supposed,  by  the 
fright,  ever  since  that  unhappy  occurrence,  relapsed  into  a 
gloomy  silence,  and  seemed  to  feel  no  concern  or  interest  in 
the  issue  of  the  trial. 

His  friends,  nevertheless,  took  kind  and  zealous  measures 
for  his  defence,  —  engaged  counsel,  sifted  testimony,  and 
used  every  possible  means,  in  the  assurance  of  his  innocence, 
to  trace  out  the  true  incendiary.  Nothing,  however,  could 
be  discovered  to  weaken  the  strong  chain  of  circumstantial 
evidence,  or  to  impeach  the  credit  of  the  witnesses,  who,  with 
the  exception  of  the  farmer  himself,  seemed  all  friendly  to 
the  accused,  and  most  distressed  at  being  obliged  to  bear  tes- 
timony against  him.  On  the  eve  of  the'  trial,  the  most  zeal- 
ous of  his  friends  could  find  no  ground  of  hope,  except  in 
the  chances  of  the  day  ;  Lucy,  for  whom  alone  the  prisoner 
asked,  being  still  confined  by  severe  illness. 

The  judges  arrived,  —  the  whole  terrible  array  of  the 
special  commission  ;  the  introductory  ceremonies  were  gone 
through ;  the  cause  was  called  on,  and  the  case  proceeded 
with  little  or  no  deviation  from  the  evidence  already  cited. 
When  called  upon  for  his  defence,  the  prisoner  again  asked 
if  Lucy  Mayne  were  in  court  ?  and  hearing  that  she  was 
ill  in  her  father's  house,  declined  entering  into  any  defence 
whatsoever.  Witnesses  to  character,  however,  pressed  foi 
ward,  —  his  old  master,  the  attorney,  the  rector  and  curate 


THE  INCENDIARY.  lf>7 

of  (he  parish,  half  the  fanners  of  the  village,  everybody,  in 
short,  who  ever  had  an  opportunity  of  knowing  him,  even 
his  reputed  rival,  Mr.  Hawkins,  who,  speaking,  he  said,  on 
the  authority  of  one  \\  ho  knew  him  well,  professed  himself 
confident  that  he  could  not  be  guilty  of  a  bad  action,  —  a 
piece  of  testimony  that  seemed  to  strike  and  affect  the  pris- 
oner more  than  anything  that  had  passed ;  —  evidence  to 
character  crowded  into  court;  —  but  all  was  of  no  avail 
against  the  strong  chain  of  concurrent  facts  ;  and  the  judge 
was  preparing  to  sum  up,  and  the  jury  looking  as  if  they 
had  already  condemned,  when  suddenly  a  piercing  shriek 
was  heard  in  the  hall,  and  pale,  tottering,  dishevelled, 
Lucy  Mayne  "rushed  into  her  father's  arms,  and  cried 
out,  with  a  shrill,  despairing  voice,  that  "  she  was  the  only 
guilty ;  that  she  had  set  fire  to  the  rick ;  and  that  if  they 
killed  Philip  Owen  for  her  crime,  they  would  be  guilty  of 
murder." 

The  general  consternation  may  be  imagined,  especially 
that  of  the  farmer,  who  had  left  his  daughter  almost  insen- 
sible with  illness,  and  still  thought  her  light-headed.  Medi- 
cal assistance,  however,  was  immediately  summoned,  and  it 
then  appeared  that  what  she  said  was  most  true  ;  that  the 
lovers,  for  such  they  were,  had  been  accustomed  to  deposit 
letters  in  one  corner  of  that  unlucky  hay-rick  ;  that  having 
seen  from  her  chamber-window  Philip  Owen  leaving  the 
yard,  she  had  flown  with  a  taper  in  her  hand  to  secure  the 
expected  letter,  and,  alarmed  at  her  father's  voice,  had  ran 
away  so  hastily,  that  she  had,  as  she  now  remembered,  left 
the  lighted  taper  amidst  the  hay ;  that  then  the  fire  came, 
and  all  was  a  blank  to  her,  until,  recovering  that  morning 
from  the  stupor  succeeding  to  delirium,  she  had  heard  that 
Philip  Owen  was  to  be  tried  for  his  life  from  the  effect  of 
her  carelessness,  and  had  flown  to  save  him  she  knew  not 
how ! 

The  sequel  may  be  guessed ;  Philip  was,  of  course,  ac- 


158  MARY   RUSSELL   MITFORD. 

quitted ;  everybody,  even  the  very  judge,  pleaded  for  the 
lovers ;  the  young  landlord  and  generous  rival  added  his 
good  word ;  and  the  schoolmaster  of  Farley  and  his  pretty 
wife  are  at  this  moment  one  of  the  best  and  happiest  co  j/tea 
in  his  Majesty's  dominions. 


WISHING. 

BY  JOHN  G.   SAXE. 

OF  all  amusements  for  the  mind, 
From  logic  down  to  fishing, 
There  is  n't  one  that  you  can  find 

So  very  cheap  as  "  wishing." 
A  very  choice  diversion  too, 

If  we  but  rightly  use  it, 

And  not,  as  we  are  apt  to  do, 

Pervert  it,  and  abuse  it. 

I  wish  —  a  common  wish  indeed  — 

My  purse  were  somewhat  fatter, 
That  I  might  cheer  the  child  of  need, 

And  not  my  pride  to  flatter ; 
That  I  might  make  Oppression  reel, 

As  only  gold  can  make  it, 
And  break  the  Tyrant's  rod  of  steel, 

As  only  gold  can  break  it 

I  wish  —  that  Sympathy  and  Love, 

And  every  human  passion 
That  has  its  origin  above, 

Would  come  and  keep  in  fashion ; 
That  Scorn,  and  Jealousy,  and  Hate, 

And  every  base  emotion, 
Were  buried  fifty  fathom  deep 

Beneath  the  waves  of  Ocean  1 


160  JOHN  G.   SAXE. 

I  wish  —  that  friends  were  always  true, 

And  motives  always  pure  ; 
I  wish  the  good  were  not  so  few, 

I  wish  the  bad  were  fewer  ; 
I  wish  that  parsons  ne'er  forgot 

To  heed  their  pious  teaching  ; 
I  wish  that  practising  was  not 

So  different  from  preaching  ! 

1  wish  —  that  modest  worth  might  be 

Appraised  with  truth  and  candor ; 
I  wish  that  innocence  were  free 

From  treachery  and  slander  ; 
I  wish  that  men  their  vows  would  mind  ; 

That  women  ne'er  were  rovers  ; 
I  wish  that  wives  were  always  kind, 

And  husbands  always  lovers ! 

I  wish  —  in  fine  —  that  Joy  and  Mirth, 

And  every  good  Ideal, 
May  come  erewhile,  throughout  the  earth. 

To  be  the  glorious  Real ; 
Till  God  shall  every  creature  bless 

With  his  supremest  blessing, 
And  Hope  be  lost  in  Happiness, 

And  Wishing  in  Possessing  1 


THE   GREAT  PORTRAIT-PAINTERS 

By  CHARLES  ROBERT  LESLIE. 


THERE  has  never  existed  a  great  painter  of  History 
or  Poetry  who  has  not  been  great  in  portrait.  Even 
Michael  Angelo  is  no  exception.  There  may  not  remain 
any  painted  portraits  of  known  persons  by  his  hand,  but 
there  are  sculptured  portraits  by  him,  and  it  is  impossible 
to  look  even  at  the  engravings  of  the  Prophets  and  Sibyls, 
without  seeing  that  they  are  from  a  hand  practised  in 
portrait,  a  hand,  too,  that  had  acquired  its  power  by  the 
practice  of  literal  exactness.  "  Fuseli  distinguishes  the 
styles,  epic,  dramatic,  and  historic,  beautifully,"  says  Mr. 
Haydon.  But  I  think,  as  I  do  of  such  distinctions  gen- 
erally, that  these  are  entirely  imaginary  ;  and  that  the  style 
of  Michael  Angelo  is  distinguished,  as  are  all  others,  by 
the  peculiar  mind  of  the  artist  only.  Haydon  adds  that, 
"  the  same  instruments  are  used  in  all  styles,  men  and 
women ;  and  no  two  men  or  women  were  ever  the  same 
in  form,  feature,  or  proportion.  After  Fuseli  has  said, 
'  the  detail  of  character  is  not  consistent  with  the  epic,'  he 
goes  on  to  show  the  great  difference  of  character  between 
each  Prophet,  as  decided  as  any  character  chosen  by  Ra- 
phael in  any  of  his  more  essentially  dramatic  works.  '  Nor 
are  the  Sibyls,'  continues  Fuseli,  '  those  female  oracles,  less 
expressive  or  less  individually  marked.'"  Thus,  though 
Haydon  was  unwilling  to  abandon  the  classifications  of 
U 


162  CHARLES  ROBERT  LESLIE. 

Fuseli,  the  contradiction  involved  in  them  did  not  escape 
him. 

There  cannot  be  a  doubt  that  Michael  Angelo,  had  he 
devoted  himself  to  portrait  only,  would  have  been  a  super- 
lative portrait-painter ;  for  in  his  works  we  find  everything 
in  perfection  that  portrait  requires,  —  dignity,  the  expres- 
sion of  character,  the  highest  perception  of  beauty,  in  man, 
woman,  and  child ;  and  not  only  in  the  unfinished  marble 
that  adorns  our  Academy  library,  but  in  the  smaller  com- 
partments of  the  Sistine  ceiling,  the  most  natural  and  fa- 
miliar domestic  incidents  treated  in  the  most  graceful 
manner.  It  is  right  this  should  be  remembered,  because 
painters  (as  they  fancy  themselves)  of  High  Art,  who 
really  have  not  the  talents  portrait  requires,  must  not  be 
allowed  to  class  themselves  with  Michael  Angelo,  as  long 
as  they  cannot  do  what  he,  in  perfection,  could  do. 

Conspicuous  as  he  stands  among  great  portrait-painters, 
Vandyke  is  not  first  of  the  first.  The  attitudes  of  his 
single  figures  are  often  formal  and  unmeaning ;  and  his 
groups,  however  finely  connected  by  composition,  are  sel- 
dom connected  by  sentiment.  Fathers,  mothers,  sons,  and 
daughters,  stand  or  sit  beside  each  other,  as  they  stood  or 
sat  in  his  room,  for  the  mere  purpose  of  being  painted ; 
and  it  is  therefore  the  nicely  discriminated  individual  char- 
acter of  every  head,  the  freshness  and  delicacy  of  his  color, 
and  the  fine  treatment  of  his  masses,  that  have  placed  him 
high  among  portrait-painters.  The  Countess  of  Bedford, 
at  Petworth,  his  Snyders  at  Castle  Howard,  his  whole 
lengths  at  Warwick  and  at  Windsor,  the  noble  equestrian 
picture  at  Blenheim,  of  Charles  L,  with  its  magnificent 
landscape  background,  and  the  whole  length  of  Charles  in 
the  Louvre,  are  among  the  masterpieces  of  Vandyke ;  but 
he  has  nowhere  shown  such  dramatic  powers  as  are  dis- 
played by  Velasquez,  in  his  portrait  picture  of  "The  Sur- 
render of  Breda." 


THE   GREAT  PORTRAIT-PAINTERS.  163 

The  Governor  of  the  town  is  presenting  its  keys  to  the 
Marquis  Spinola,  who  (hat  in  hand)  neither  takes  them, 
nor  allows  his  late  antagonist  to  kneel.  But,  laying  his 
hand  gently  on  his  shoulder,  he  seems  to  say,  "  Fortune  has 
favored  me,  but  our  cases  might  have  been  reversed."  To 
paint  such  an  act  of  generous  courtesy  was  worthy  of  a 
contemporary  of  Cervantes.  It  is  not,  however,  in  the 
choice  of  the  subject,  but  in  the  manner  in  which  he  has 
brought  the  scene  before  our  eyes,  that  the  genius  and  mind 
of  Velasquez  are  shown.  The  cordial,  unaffected  bearing 
of  the  conqueror  could  only  have  been  represented  by  as 
thorough  a  gentleman  as  himself.  I  know  this  picture  but 
from  copies.  *Mr.  Ford  says  of  the  original,  "  Never  were 
knights,  soldiers,  or  national  character  better  painted,  or 
the  heavy  Fleming,  the  intellectual  Italian,  and  the  proud 
Spaniard  more  nicely  marked,  even  to  their  boots  and 
breeches ;  the  lances  of  the  guards  actually  vibrate.  Ob- 
serve the  contrast  of  the  light-blue,  delicate  page,  with  the 
dark,  iron-clad  General,  Spinola,  who,  the  model  of  a  high- 
bred, generous  warrior,  is  consoling  a  gallant  but  vanquished 
enemy." 

Another  great  portrait  picture,  the  conception  of  which 
is  equally  dramatic  and  original,  is  at  Windsor  Castle.  The 
Archduke  Ferdinand  of  Austria  and  the  Prince  of  Spain, 
mounted  on  chargers,  are  directing  an  assault  in  the  battle 
of  Nortlingen.  The  conventional  manner,  sanctioned  in- 
deed by  great  painters,  of  representing  commanders  of 
armies,  whether  mounted  or  on  foot,  quietly  looking  out  of 
the  picture,  while  the  battle  rages  behind  them,  is  here  set 
aside.  The  generals  are  riding  into  the  scene  of  action ; 
and  yet  their  attitudes  are  so  contrived  as  sufficiently  to 
show  their  features.  Nearer  to  the  spectator  are  half- 
length  figures,  the  end  of  a  long  line  of  steel-clad  infantry, 
diminishing  in  perspective  up  a  hill  to  the  fortress  they  are 
storming.  All  is  action ;  and  though  we  are  only  shown 


164  CHARLES  ROBERT  LESLIE. 

the  generals  and  the  common  soldiers,  yet,  as  the  horses 
of  the  former  are  in  profile,  and  have  just  come  into  the 
picture,  we  may  imagine  a  train  of  attendant  officers  about 
to  appear ;  and  though  portrait  was  the  first  object  of 
Rubens,  the  picture  is  a  noble  representation  of  a  battle. 
The  conception,  as  regards  the  foot-soldiers,  has  been  im- 
itated, though  differently  applied,  by  Opie  ;  and  probably 
Raphael's  composition  in  the  Vatican,  representing  David 
gazing  at  Bathsheba,  while  the  troops  of  Uriah  pass  below 
him,  suggested  it  to  Rubens. 

The  pendant  to  this  picture  is  the  group  of  Sir  Balthasar 
Gerbier,  his  wife,  and  children  ;  which  Dr.  Waagen  inclines 
to  attribute  to  Vandyke.  But  the  arrangement  and  dra- 
matic connection  of  the  figures  is  entirely  free  from  the 
formality  of  Vandyke ;  and  a  comparison  of  this  fine  com- 
position with  Vandyke's  "  Children  of  Charles  I."  at 
Windsor,  his  "Pembroke  Family"  at  Wilton,  his  "Earl 
and  Countess  of  Derby"  belonging  to  Lord  Clarendon, 
or  "  The  Nassau  Family "  at  Penshanger,  will  show  that 
it  is  by  Rubens. 

Perhaps  the  noblest  group  of  portraits  ever  painted,  for 
it  is  considered  the  greatest  work  of  its  class  by  Titian,  is 
that  of  the  male  part  of  the  family  of  Luigi  Cornaro.  The 
fine  old  man,  whose  life  by  an  extraordinary  system  of 
temperance  was  protracted  to  a  hundred  years,  kneels  be- 
fore an  altar  in  the  open  air,  followed  by  his  son-in-law 
and  grandchildren,  except  the  three  youngest,  who  are 
sitting  on  the  steps  of  the  altar  playing  with  a  little  dog, 
an  incident  like  some  I  have  noticed  in  the  works  of  Ra- 
phael. The  characteristic  arrangement  of  the  figures,  the 
noble  simplicity  of  the  lines,  and  the  truth  and  power  of 
the  color,  unite  in  placing  this  picture  on  the  summit  of 
Art.  There  is  no  apparent  sacrifice  of  detail,  no  trick,  that 
we  can  discover,  to  give  supremacy  to  the  heads,  which 
yet  rivet  our  attention  at  the  first  glance,  and  to  which  we 


THE   GREAT  PORTRAIT-PAINTERS.  1  63 

return  again  and  again,  impressed  by  the  thought  and  mind 
in  the  countenance's  of  the  elder  personages,  and  charmed 
with  the  youthful  innocence  of  .the  boys.  I  have  seen  peo- 
ple, ignorant  of  the  principles  of  Art,  and  caring  little  about 
pictures,  stand  before  this  one  in  astonishment,  and  I  have 
heard  them  express  themselves  in  a  way  which  proved  that 
little  of  its  excellence  was  lost  on  them.  Fortunately  for  Eng- 
land, it  belongs  to  his  Grace  the  Duke  of  Northumberland. 

There  was  a  time  when  kings,  warriors,  and  other  em- 
inent persons  were  painted,  almost  as  a  matter  of  course, 
in  devotional  attitudes.  It  was,  in  fact,  a  fashion,  and  was 
continued  to  a  later  date  than  the  close  of  Titian's  life.  But 
is  not  so  much  what  the  individual  painted  may  be  doing, 
as  its  consistency  with  his  whole  life,  and  the  look  and  man- 
ner given  him  by  the  painter,  which  interests  or  offends  us. 
The  piety  of  a  kneeling  hero  may  be  ostentatious ;  or  we 
might  happen  to  know  that  devotion  was  all  the  religion  he 
practised,  and  that  he  was  lifting  to  Heaven  hands  that  had 
been  steeped,  and  were  again  to  be  steeped,  in  innocent 
blood.  Sir  Thomas  More  was  several  times  painted  by 
Holbein,  yet  never,  that  I  recollect,  in  an  attitude  of  devo- 
tion, or  accompanied  by  any  symbol  of  that  religion  which 
was  the  rule  of  his  life ;  and  what  would  the  memory  of 
More,  or  the  genius  of  Holbein,  have  gained  had  he  so 
painted  him  ?  Raphael  flattered  Leo  the  Tenth,  as  he  was 
directed,  by  introducing  him,  in  the  "Attila,"  as  Leo  the 
First.  But  when  he  was  to  paint  a  more  characteristic 
portrait  of  the  Pope,  he  represented  only  the  sovereign  and 
the  dilettante.  Leo  is  examining  with  a  glass  a  splendidly- 
illuminated  manuscript.  He  sits  in  a  chair  of  state,  at- 
tended, not  by  saints,  but  by  two  princes  of  the  church; 
and  the  portrait  is,  as  all  portraits  should  be,  biographical. 
Even  in  copies  (from  which  only  I  know  it),  I  fancy  I  see- 
faint  indications  of  a  love  of  fun,  so  characteristic  of  a 
Pontiff  who  delighted  in  a  practical  joke. 


166  CHARLES  ROBERT   LESLIE. 

The  admirers  of  devotional  portrait  object  to  the  more 
modern  custom  of  indicating  the  deeds  of  the  person  repre- 
sented, as  savoring  of  vanity ;  forgetting  that  acts  of  devo- 
tion are  deeds,  and,  as  far  as  attitude  and  expression  have 
to  do  with  devotion,  the  easiest  of  all  deeds ;  and  when 
consisting  in  these  alone,  the  most  criminal  of  all  vanities. 
The  only  portrait  of  that  admirable  woman  Margaret  Tu- 
dor, represents  her  in  a  religious  habit,  with  her  hands 
joined  in  prayer,  and  she  could  not  have  been  so  charac- 
teristically handed  down  to  us  in  any  other  dress  or  attitude. 
Neither  could  Sir  Joshua's  portrait  of  General  Eliott  be 
more  happily  conceived  than  it  is.  The  key  of  the  fortress 
he  is  defending  is  held  firmly  in  his  hand.  But  commanding 
as  are  the  air  and  attitude,  they  have  nothing  of  the  vanity 
of  bravado ;  indeed,  if  what  is  most  honorable  to  the  man 
should  not  be  painted,  the  world  would  not  have  possessed 
the  noble  conception  of  Velasquez  that  has  been  described. 

What  may  be  called  masquerading  or  fancy-ball  portrait 
is  seldom  happy;  and  though  we  do  not  object  to  Sir 
Joshua's  "Kitty  Fisher  as  Cleopatra,"  or  "Emily  Bertie 
as  Thais,"  yet,  as  in  such  cases,  let  us  be  sure  the  assumed 
character  accords  with  the  real  one.  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence 
made  a  sketch  of  George  the  Fourth  in  the  armor  of  the 
Black  Prince,  but  had  the  good  sense  not  to  carry  the 
matter  further  than  a  sketch. 

Are  portrait-painters,  it  may  be  asked,  to  paint  the  vices 
of  their  sitters?  Assuredly,  if  these  vices  exhibit  them- 
selves in  the  countenance.  And  Fuseli  praises  Titian  for 
expressing  some  of  the  most  odious  individual  characteristics, 
in  portraits  that  he  selects  as  works  of  the  highest  order. 

Allan  Cunningham  accuses  Reynolds  of  flattery,  and  I 
apprehend  Sir  Joshua  was  just  as  much  of  a  flatterer  as 
Titian.  With  a  vulgar  head  before  him,  he  would  not,  or 
rather  could  not,  make  a  vulgar  picture.  But  I  do  not 
believe  that  he  would  have  given  to  Colonel  Charteris  "  an 


THE  GREAT  PORTRAIT-PAINTERS.  167 

aspect  worthy  a  President  of  the  Society  for  the  Suppression 
of  Vice,"  unless,  which  is  not  impossible,  he  had  such  an 
aspect.  In  his  whole  length  of  the  Duke  of  Orleans,  the 
debauchee  was  as  apparent  as  the  Prince. 

No  man  can  be  a  good  portrait-painter  who  is  not  a 
good  physiognomist.  I  do  not  mean  that  he  should  know 
Lavater  by  heart,  or  that  he  must  believe  in  all  that  phre- 
nology assumes.  But  he  must  be,  what  all  of  us  are,  in 
some  degree,  a  judge  of  character  by  the  signs  exhibited 
in  the  face.  A  few  of  the  broad  distinctions  of  physiognomy 
depend  on  the  forms  of  the  features,  but  all  its  nicer  shades 
have  far  more  to  do  with  expression ;  and  in  this,  indeed, 
the  real  character  is  often  seen  where  the  conformation  of 
the  features  seems  to  contradict  it.  Socrates  had  the  face 
and  figure  of  a  Silenus,  but  the  great  mind  of  the  phi- 
losopher must  have  been  visible,  through  the  disguise,  to 
all  who  could  read  expression.  There  are  some  general 
and  well-known  rules  for  the  determination  of  physiognom- 
ical character,  as  far  as  it  has  to  do  with  the  shapes  of  the 
features ;  the  aquiline  nose  and  eye,  for  instance,  belong  to 
the  heroic  class,  thick  lips  to  the  sensual,  and  thin  to  the 
selfish;  yet  all  these  may  be  liable  to  many  exceptions; 
the  first  certainly  are;  for  Nelson,  Wolfe,  Turenne,  and 
many  other  heroes,  will  occur  to  our  recollection  who  had 
nothing  of  the  eagle  physiognomy.  It  is  natural  to  asso- 
ciate beauty  with  goodness,  and  ugliness  with  wickedness ; 
and  children  generally  do  this.  But  an  acquaintance  with 
the  world  soon  shows  us  that  bad  and  selfish  hearts  may 
be  concealed  under  the  handsomest  features,  and  the  highest 
virtues  hidden  under  the  homeliest ;  and  that  goodness  may 
even  consist  with  conformations  of  face  absolutely  ugly. 
We  then  begin  to  look  for  the  character  in  the  expression 
rather  than  in  the  forms  of  the  features,  and  to  distinguish 
assumed  expressions  from  natural  ones ;  and  so  we  go  on, 
and,  as  we  grow  older,  become  better  physiognomists,  though 


168  CHARLES  ROBERT   LLSLIE. 

we  never  arrive  at  that  certainty  of  judgment  which  seems 
not  to  be  intended  we  ever  should. 

The  best  portrait-painters,  though  they  may  not  have 
penetrated  through  the  mask  to  all  beneath  it,  have,  by  the 
Melity  of  their  Art,  given  resemblances  that  sometimes 
correct  and  sometimes  confirm  the  verdicts  of  historians. 
\Vho  can  look  at  Vandyke's  three  heads,  painted  to  enable 
Bernini  to  make  a  bust,  and  believe  all  that  has  been  said 
against  Charles  L?  Or  who  can  look  at  Holbein's  por- 
traits of  Henry  VIII.,  and  doubt  the  worst  that  has  been 
said  of  his  selfish  cruelty  ? 

Among  the  many  excellences  of  Holbein,  his  treatment 
of  the  hands  is  not  the  least ;  and  it  is  evident  that  in  his 
whole-lengths  of  Henry,  they  are  portraits,  and  so  are  the 
legs,  and  that  the  king  stood  for  the  entire  figure  in  that 
characteristic,  but  by  no  means  graceful  attitude,  in  which 
he  set  the  fashion  to  his  courtiers.  We  feel  that  we  could 
swear  to  the  truth,  the  whole  truth,  and  nothing  but  the 
truth,  of  such  portraits. 

Among  the  pictures  at  Hampton  Court  attributed  to 
Holbein,  few  can  be  relied  on  as  genuine.  I  cannot  be- 
lieve that  those  historical  curiosities,  ';  The  Embarkation  of 
Henry  VIII.  from  Dover,"  "The  Field  of  the  Cloth  of 
Gold,"  "  The  Meeting  of  Henry  and  Maximilian,"  or  "  The 
Battle  of  the  Spurs,"  are  his  works;  neither  do  I  believe 
he  painted  the  picture  that  includes  Henry,  Jane  Seymour, 
Prince  Edward,  Mary,  and  Elizabeth,  nor  the  life-sized 
whole-length  of  "The  Earl  of  Surry."  According  to  the 
general  custom  of  attributing  the  portraits  of  every  age 
to  the  greatest  master  of  that  age,  Holbein  is  made  answer- 
able for  these,  and  many  others,  greatly  inferior  to  the 
picture,  certainly  by  him,  belonging  to  the  Surgeon  Barbers' 
Company ;  a  work  rivalling  Titian  in  its  color,  and  in  the 
finely-marked  individual  character  of  the  heads.  It  i.« 
remarkable  that,  although  it  has  hung  in  the  very  heart  of 


THE   GREAT   PORTRAIT-PAINTERS.  169 

London  for  more  than  three  hundred  years,  it  has  not  in 
the  least  suffered  from  smoke ;  and  if  it  has  ever  been 
cleaned,  it  has  sustained  no  injury  from  the  process.  Dr., 
Waagen  urges  the  importance  of  so  fine  a  picture  being 
removed  to  the  National  Gallery,  and  thinks  an  arrange- 
ment might  be  made  to  that  purpose,  between  the  Govern- 
ment and  the  company  that  possesses  it ;  "a  consummation 
'  devoutly  to  be  wished."  There  is  not  a  Holbein  in  the 
National  Gallery. 

While  speaking  of  this  great  painter,  I  must  not  omit 
to  notice  the  interest  given  to  his  picture  of  the  family  of 
Sir  Thomas  More,  by  making  the  background  an  exact 
representation  of  an  apartment  in  More's  house.  This 
example  might  effect  a  great  improvement  hi  portrait,  and 
it  would  often  be  found  easier  to  the  painter  (as  well  as 
far  more  agreeable)  to  copy  realities,  than  to  weary  him- 
self with  ineffectual  attempts  to  make  the  eternal  pillar 
and  curtain,  or  the  conventional  sky  and  tree,  look  as  well 
as  they  do  in  the  backgrounds  of  Reynolds  and  Gains- 
borough. 

The  question  relating  to  the  degree  in  which  personal 
defects  are  to  be  marked  must,  in  every  case,  be  settled 
by  the  taste  of  the  painter.  Reynolds  has  not  only  shown 
that  Baretti  was  near-sighted,  but  he  has  made  that  defect 
as  much  the  subject  of  the  picture  as  the  sitter  himself, 
and  Baretti's  absorption  in  his  book  strongly  marks  the 
literary  man.  But  near-sightedness  is  not  a  deformity, 
and  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  Reynolds  abated  whatever 
of  malformation  he  might  not  for  the  sake  of  individuality 
think  it  right  to  exclude,  and  that  he  also  invariably  softened 
harshness  of  feature  or  expression,  and  diminished  positive 
ugliness,  as  far  as  he  could  do  so  without  losing  character. 
Chantrey  did  the  same  ;  but  Lawrence  softened  harshness 
so  much  as  often  to  lose  character.  The  portraits  of  neither 
of  the  three  could  ever  be  called  ridiculously  like,  an  ex- 


170  CHARLES  ROBERT  LESLIE. 

pression  sometimes  used  in  the  way  of  compliment,  but  in 
reality  pointing  exactly  to  what  a  portrait  should  not  be ; 
and  Wilkie  felt  this  so  much  that  he  went  to  the  other 
extreme,  and  even  deviated  into  unlikeness  in  his  portraits, 
from  the  dread  of  that  un-ideal  mode  of  representation  which 
excites  us  to  laugh. 

We  undervalue  that  which  costs  us  least  effort,  and  "West, 
while  engaged  on  a  small  picture  of  his  own  family,  little 
thought  how  much  it  would  surpass  in  interest  many  of 
his  more  ambitious  works.  Its  subject  is  the  first  visit 
of  his  father  and  elder  brother  to  his  young  wife,  after 
the  birth  of  hor  second  child.  They  are  Quakers  ;  and  the 
venerable  old  man  and  his  eldest  son  wear  their  hats, 
according  to  the  custom  of  their  sect.  Nothing  can  be 
more  beautifully  conceived  than  the  mother  bending  over 
the  babe,  sleeping  in  her  lap.  She  is  wrapped  in  a  white 
dressing-gown,  and  her  other  son,  a  boy  of  six  years  old, 
is  leaning  on  the  arm  of  her  chair.  "West  stands  behind 
his  father,  with  his  palette  and  brushes  in  his  hand,  and  the 
silence  that  reigns  over  the  whole  is  that  of  religious  medi- 
tation, which  will  probably  end,  according  to  the  Quaker 
custom,  in  a  prayer  from  the  patriarch  of  the  family.  The 
picture  is  a  very  small  one,  the  engraving  from  it  being 
of  the  same  size.  It  has  no  excellence  of  color,  but  the 
masses  of  light  and  shadow  are  impressive  and  simple,  and 
I  know  not  a  more  original  illustration  of  the  often-painted 
subject,  the  ages  of  man.  Infancy,  childhood,  youth,  middle 
life,  and  extreme  age,  are  beautifully  brought  together  in 
the  quiet  chamber  of  the  painter's  wife.  Had  he  been 
employed  to  paint  these  five  ages,  he  would  perhaps  have 
given  himself  a  great  deal  of  trouble  to  produce  a  work 
that  would  have  been  classical,  but,  compared  with  this, 
commonplace ;  while  he  has  here  succeeded  in  making 
a  picture  which,  being  intended  only  for  himself,  is  for  that 
reason  a  picture  for  the  whole  world ;  and  if  painters  could 


THE  GREAT  PORTRAIT-PAINTERS  171 

always  thus  put   their  hearts  into  their   work,  how  much 
would  the  general  interest  of  the  Art  be  increased ! 

Among  the  many  great  lessons  in  portrait  composition, 
by  Rembrandt,  are  "The  Night  Watch,"  at  Amsterdam, 
"  The  Group  of  Surgeons  assembled  round  a  Corpse,"  in 
the  Musee  at  the  Hague,  and  the  picture  which  Mr.  Smith, 
in  his  "  Catalogue  RaisonneY'  calls  "  Ranier  Hanslo  and  his 
Mother."  A  sight  of  the  two  first  is  well  worth  a  journey 
to  Holland.  The  last  is  sometimes  described  as  "  a  woman 
consulting  a  Baptist  minister,"  and  at  others,  "a  woman 
consulting  an  eminent  lawyer,  or  an  eminent  physician." 
As  there  are  large  books  on  a  table  and  in  the  background, 
and  the  expressions  of  the  heads  are  earnest  and  serious, 
the  subject  might  be  either  of  these.  I  saw  the  picture 
(which  belongs  to  the  Earl  of  Ashburnham)  many  years 
ago,  and  have  ever  since  been  haunted  with  the  wish  to 
see  it  again.  Indeed,  I  was  about  to  make  a  day's  journey 
for  that  sole  purpose,  when  it  was  sent  to  London  for  sale. 
The  persons  it  represents  are  unknown,  the  heads  of  neither 
are  remarkable  for  beauty,  or  any  other  interest  than  that 
marked  individuality  that  carries  with  it  a  certainty  of 
likeness ;  and  yet  it  is  a  picture  that  throws  down  every 
barrier  that  would  exclude  it  from  the  highest  class  of  Art ; 
nor  do  I  know  anything  from  the  hand  of  Rembrandt  in 
which  he  appears  greater  than  in  this  'simple  and  unpre- 
tending work.  I  remember  being  surprised  to  hear  Sir 
Thomas  Lawrence  object  to  its  treatment,  that  though  the 
man  turns  towards  the  woman,  and  is  speaking  earnestly, 
while  she  is  listening  with  great  attention,  yet  they  do  not 
look  in  each  other's  faces.  I  was  surprised  that  he  should 
not  have  noticed  how  frequently  this  happens,  in  conversa- 
tions on  the  most  important  subjects,  and  oftenest,  indeed, 
in  such  conversations.  Rembrandt  has  repeated  these  at- 
titudes and  expressions,  in  the  two  principal  personages  in 
"The  Night  Watch,"  with  the  difference  only,  that  tho 


172  CHARLES  ROBERT  LESLIE. 

figures  are  walking  as  they  converse.  There  is  an  engrav- 
ing of  the  "  Hanslo  and  his  Mother  "  by  Josiah  Boydell, 
which,  however,  fails  in  giving  the  breadth  of  light  on  the 
female  head,  the  color  of  which  is  as  near  to  perfection  as 
Art  ever  approached. 

The  hands  in  Rembrandt's  portraits,  as  in  those  of  Hol- 
bein, do  everything  required  of  them  in  the  most  natural 
and  expressive  way.  But  very  different  are  the  hands 
of  Vandyke,  which  have  an  affected  grace,  adopted  from 
Rubens,  though  carried  further  from  Nature,  and  which  may 
be  traced  from  Rubens  to  Coreggio.  The  hands  in  Van- 
dyke's portraits  are  always  of  one  type,  thin  and  elegant, 
with  long,  tapered  fingers.  He  was  followed  in  these  par- 
ticulars by  Lely  with  still  more  of  affectation,  who  carried 
a  corresponding  mannerism  into  his  faces,  losing  nearly  all 
individuality  in  that  <wie  style  of  beauty  that  was  in  fashion. 

A  nobleman  said  to  Lely,  "  How  is  it  that  you  have  so 
great  a  reputation,  when  you  know,  as  well  as  I  do,  that 
you  are  no  painter  ?  "  "  True,  but  I  am  the  best  you  have," 
was  the  answer.  And  so  it  is  ;  the  best  artist  of  the  age 
will  generally,  while  living,  have  a  reputation  equal  to  the 
greatest  that  have  preceded  him.  Lely,  however,  was  a 
painter,  and  of  very  great  merit.  His  color,  always  pearly 
and  refined,  is  often  very  charming.  He  understood  well 
the  treatment  of  landscape  as  background,  and  there  are 
some  of  his  pictures  which  I  prefer  to  some  pictures  by 
Vandyke. 

Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  remarks  that  in  general  the  greatest 
portrait-painters  have  not  copied  closely  the  dresses  of  their 
time.  Holbein,  however,  took  no  liberties  with  the  doublets, 
hose,  or  mantles  of  the  gentlemen  he  painted,  nor  with  the 
head-gear  or  kirtles  of  the  ladies ;  neither  did  Velasquez  ; 
and  their  portraits  are,  therefore,  curious  records  of  fashions, 
picturesque,  and  sometimes  fantastic  in  the  extreme,  yet 
ulways  treated  with  admirable  Art ;  and  I  confess  I  prefer 


THE  GREAT  PORTRAIT-PAINTERS.  173 

those  of  Sir  Joshua's  portraits  in  which  he  has  faithfully 
adhered  to  the  dress  of  the  sitter ;  which  is  always  char- 
acteristic,, and  often  highly  so.  The  manner  in  which 
Queen  Elizabeth  covered  herself  with  jewels,  and  the 
splendor  with  which  Raleigh  decorated  his  person,  pertain 
to  biography. 

In  some  of  Vandyke's  portraits,  no  change  is  made  in 
the  dress,  while  in  many  (I  believe  the  most),  that  which 
is  stiff  and  formal  is  loosened,  and  alterations  are  introduced 
that  we  are  only  aware  of  when  we  compare  his  pictures 
with  exact  representations,  by  other  artists,  of  the  costume 
of  the  time.  Such  deviations  from  matter  of  fact  were 
carried  much  ^further  by  Lely  and  Kneller,  particularly  in 
their  portraits  of  ladies ;  and  the  first  adopted  an  elegant, 
but  impossible,  undress,  that  assists  the  voluptuous  expres- 
sion which  he  aimed  at,  either  to  please  a  dissolute  Court, 
Dr  because  it  pleased  himself ;  possibly  for  both  reasons. 

With  Kneller,  however,  the  ideal  style  of  the  dress  does 
not  affect  the  prevailing  character  he  gave  to  the  beauties 
he  painted,  who  seem  a  higher  order  of  beings  than  the 
ladies  of  Lely.  Among  the  attractions  of  the  latter  the  ex- 
pression of  strict  virtue  is  by  no  means  conspicuous,  while  it 
would  seem  profane  to  doubt  the  purity  of  the  high-born 
dames  of  Kneller.  Though,  as  a  painter,  not  to  be  com- 
pared to  Lely,  his  women  seem  secured  from  moral  degra- 
dation by  an  ever-present  consciousness  of  noble  birth,  which 
sits  well  on  them ;  and  though  their  demeanor  is  as  studied 
as  the  grace  of  a  minuet,  it  does  not  offend  like  vulgar 
affectation.  Fielding,  the  natural  Fielding,  greatly  ad- 
mired the  stately  beauties  of  Kneller,  at  Hampton  Court, 
and  compared  Sophia  Western  to  one  of  them.  Conscious 
that.  '*  when  unadorned,  adorned  the  most,"  they  reject  the 
fuel  of  jewellery,  and  are  content  with  only  so  much  assist- 
ance from  Art  as  they  receive  from  well-arranged  draperies. 

The  great  fault  of  Lely  is  the  family  likeness,  closer  than 


174  CHARLES  ROBERT  LESLIE. 

that  of  sisters,  which  forbids  our  relying  on  his  pictures 
as  portraits ;  and  this  unpardonable  fault  is  carried  even 
further  by  Kneller,  whose  ladies  are  all  cast  in  one  mould 
of  feature  and  form,  and  all  alike  tall  to  a  degree  rare  in 
nature. 

Reynolds  adopted  something  from  both  which  he  used 
to  advantage;  but  he  did  far  more,  —  he  recovered  por- 
trait from  all  the  mannerism  that  had  accumulated  on  it, 
from  the  death  of  Vandyke  to  his  own  time,  and  restored 
it  to  truth. 

When  we  compare  his  style  with  that  of  his  master, 
Hudson,  we  are  struck  with  its  vast  superiority,  its  wide 
difference,  not  merely  in  degree,  but  in  kind ;  and  in  this 
it  would  appear  to  form  an  exception  to  what  has  generally 
been  the  case,  namely,  that  the  style  of  every  extraordinary 
genius  is  but  a  great  improvement  on  that  of  the  school  in 
which  he  was  reared.  But  it  was  not  from  Hudson,  nor 
from  his  visit  to  Italy,  that  the  Art  of  Reynolds  was  formed. 
The  seed  that  was  to  produce  fruit,  so  excellent  and  abun- 
dant, was  sown  before  he  quitted  Devonshire.  He  there 
saw,  and  probably  among  the  first  pictures  he  ever  saw, 
the  works  of  a  painter  wholly  unknown  in  the  metropolis. 
"  This  painter,"  Northcote  tells  us,  "  was  William  Gandy,  of 
Exeter,  whom,"  he  says,  "  I  cannot  but  consider  as  an  early 
master  of  Reynolds.  He  told  me  himself  that  he  had  seen 
portraits  by  Gandy  equal  to  those  of  Rembrandt ;  one  in 
particular  of  an  alderman  of  Exeter,  which  is  placed  in  a 
public  building  in  that  city.  I  have  also  heard  him  repeat 
some  observations  of  Gandy's  which  had  been  mentioned 
to  him,  and  that  he  approved  of;  one.  in  particular  was, 
that  a  picture  ought  to  have  a  richness  in  its  texture,  as 
if  the  colors  had  been  composed  of  cream  or  cheese,  and  the 
reverse  of  a  hard  and  husky  or  dry  manner."  Now  a 
single  precept  like  tin's,  falling  into  an  ear  fitted  to  receive 
it,  is  sufficient  to  create  a  style ;  while,  upon  the  inapt,  all 
the  best  instruction  that  can  be  given  is  wasted. 


THE   GREAT  PORTRAIT-PAINTERS.  175 

I  have  seen  a  portrait  by  Gaudy,  which  I  should  have 
mistaken  for  an  early  work  of  Reynolds ;  and  this,  with 
what  Xorthcote  tells  us,  is  enough  to  establish,  in  my  mind, 
Gand/s  claim  to  the  honor  of  being  the  first  instructor  of 
a  great  genius  whom  he  never  saw.  Gandy's  father  was  a 
pupil  of  Vandyke  ;  and  being  patronized  by  the  Duke  of 
Ormond,  and  retained  in  his  service  in  Ireland,  his  -voik? 
were  as  little  known  in  London  as  those  of  his  son,  TV  :  r 
practised  only  in  Devonshire.  Thus,  while  the  style  of 
Vandyke  degenerated  through  the  hands  of  his  successors 
in  the  Capital,  till  it  was  totally  lost  in  the  beginning  of 
the  eighteenth  century,  some  of  its  best  qualities  were  pre- 
served in  rentete  parts  of  the  kingdom,  to  lead  to  a  splendid 
revival  of  portraiture  ;  so  true  it  is  that,  however  obscured 
from  sight,  at  times,  some  of  the  links  in  the  chain  of  Art 
may  be,  still  it  is  a  chain  never  wholly  broken. 

Nothing  can  be  further  from  my  intention  than  to  lesse* 
the  fame  of  Reynolds.  What  I  have  stated  merely  show* 
what  indeed  we  might  be  certain  of  without  a  knowledge  of 
the  facts,  namely,  that  the  birth  of  his  Art  was  not  miracu- 
lous. Praise  enough  is  still  left  for  him  ;  for  that  which  he 
derived  from  Gandy  was  but  the  medium  of  his  own  fasci- 
nating conceptions  of  Nature.  "  There  is  a  charm,"  says 
Northcote,  "  in  his  portraits,  a  mingled  softness  and  force, 
a  grasping  at  the  end,  with  nothing  harsh  or  unpleasant  in 
the  means,  that  you  will  find  nowhere  else.  He  may  gc 
out  of  fashion  for  a  tune,  but  you  must  come  back  to  him 
again,  while  a  thousand  imitators  and  academic  triflers  are 
forgotten." 

In  looking  over  prints  from  his  works,  we  are  astonished 
at  the  many  attitudes  and  incidents  we  find  new  to  Art, 
and  yet  often  such  as  from  their  very  familiarity  in  life 
have  been  overloked  by  other  painters.  The  three  Ladies 
Waldegrave,  one  winding  silk  from  the  hands  of  another, 
while  the  third  is  bending  over  a  drawing,  Mrs.  Abington 


176  CHARLES  ROBERT   LESLIE. 

leaning  on  the  back  of  her  chair,  and  Lady  Fenoulhet  with 
her  hands  in  a  muff,  for  instance  ;  and  then  the  many  ex- 
quisitely natural  groupings  of  mothers  and  children,  and  of 
children  with  children  ;  how  greatly  superior  in  interest  are 
such  conceptions,  fresh  from  Nature,  to  some  of  his  inven- 
tions, —  as  of  ladies  sacrificing  to  the  Graces,  or  decorating 
a  statue  of  Hymen,  of  which  indeed  he  made  fine  pictures 
(for  that  he  could  not  help),  but  pictures  the  impression  of 
which  is  comparatively  languid. 

In  the  collected  works  of  no  other  portrait-painter  do  we 
find  so  great  a  diversity  of  individual  character  illustrated 
by  so  great  a  variety  of  natural  incident,  or  aided  by  such 
various  and  well-chosen  effects  of  light  and  shadow ;  many 
entirely  new  to  Art,  as,  for  instance,  the  partial  shadows 
thrown  by  branches  of  trees  over  whole-length  figures.  In- 
deed, by  no  other  painter,  except  Gainsborough,  has  land- 
scape been  so  beautifully  or  effectively  brought  in  aid  of 
portrait.  Vandyke  generally  subdues  its  brightness  to  give 
supremacy  to  the  head,  and  Lely  and  Kneller  did  this  still 
more  ;  but  Reynolds,  without  lessening  its  power,  always 
contrived  it  so  as  to  relieve  the  face  most  effectively. 

We  may  learn  nearly  everything  relating  to  portrait  from 
Reynolds.  Those  deviations  from  the  exact  correspondence 
of  the  sides  of  the  face  which  are  so  common  in  Nature 
are  never  corrected  by  him,  as  they  sometimes  are  by  in- 
ferior artists  under  the  notion  of  improving  the  drawing. 
He  felt  that  a  marked  difference  in  the  lines  surrounding 
the  eyes  often  greatly  aids  the  expression  of  the  face.  He 
took  advantage  of  this  in  painting  the  fixed  despair  of 
Ugolino,  no  doubt  finding  it  in  the  model ;  and  in  a  very 
different  head,  his  front  face  of  Garrick,  he  has,  by  observing 
the  difference  of  the  eyes,  given  great  archness  of  expres- 
sion, and  assisted  its  intelligence  without  making  the  face 
less  handsome. 

It  has  been  said,  and   I  believe  it,  that  no  painter  cai 


THE  GREAT   PORTRAIT-PAINTERS.  177 

put  more  sense  into  a  head  than  he  possesses  himself,  and 
it  must  have  been  rare  for  Reynolds  to  meet  with  an  in 
tellect  superior  to  his  own.  Had  we  no  other  evidence,  that 
of  Goldsmith,  who  knew  him  well,  was  a  close  observer,  and 
no  flatterer,  would  be  conclusive  :  — 

"Here  Reynolds  is  laid,  and  to  tell  you  my  mind, 
He  has  not  left  a  wiser  or  better  behind." 

But  his  portraits  were  not  always  so  satisfactory  to  his 
sitters  as  the  works  of  inferior  painters.  The  truth  is, 
sitters  are  no  judges  of  their  own  likenesses,  and  in  their 
immediate  family  circle  the- best  judges  are  not  always  to 
be  found.  I?ord  Thurlow  said,  "There  are  two  factions, 
the  Reynolds  faction  and  the  Romney  faction.  I  am  of 
the  Romney  faction."  Now  in  Romney*s  whole-length  the 
Chancellor  appeared  a  more  handsome  man  than  in  the 
half-length  of  Reynolds.  Romney  avoided  all  indication 
of  the  suppressed  temper  that  was  so  apt  to  explode  in 
violent  paroxysms,  and  this  rendered  his  picture  more  ac- 
ceptable to  the  original.  But  he  missed  what  Reynolds 
alone  could  give,  —  that  extraordinary  sapience  which  made 
Charles  Fox  say,  "  No  man  could  be  so  wise  as  Lord  Thur- 
low looked." 

That  the  portraits  of  Reynolds  were  the  best  of  all  like- 
nesses, I  have  no  manner  of  doubt.  I  know  several  of  his 
pictures  of  children,  the  originals  of  whom  I  have  seen  in 
middle  and  old  age,  and  hi  every  instance  I  could  discover 
much  likeness.  He  painted  Lord  Melbourne  when  a  boy, 
and  with  that  genuine  laugh  that  was  so  characteristic  of 
the  future  Prime  Minister  at  every  period  of  his  life ;  and 
no  likeness  between  a  child  and  a  man  of  sixty  (an  age  at 
which  I  remember  Lord  Melbourne)  was  ever  more  strik- 
ing. Lord  Melbourne  recollected  that  Sir  Joshua  bribed 
him  to  sit,  by  giving  him  a  ride  on  his  foot,  and  said,  "  If 
you  behave  well,  you  shall  have  another  ride." 
12 


178  CHARLES   ROBERT  LESLIE. 

His  fondness  of  children  is  recorded  on  all  his  canvases 
in  which  they  appear.  A  matchless  picture  of  Miss  Bowls, 
a  beautiful  laughing  child  caressing  a  dog,  was  sold  a  few 
years  ago  at  auction,  and  cheaply,  at  a  thousand  guineas. 
The  father  and  mother  of  the  little  girl  intended  she  should 
sit  to  Romney,  who  at  one  time  more  than  divided  the 
town  with  Reynolds.  Sir  George  Beaumont,  however, 
advised  them  to  employ  Sir  Joshua.  "But  his  pictures 
fade."  "  No  matter,  take  the  chance ;  even  a  faded  pic- 
ture by  Reynolds  will  be  the  finest  thing  you  can  have. 
Ask  him  to  dine  with  you ;  and  let  him  become  acquainted 
with  her."  The  advice  was  taken  ;  the  little  girl  was  placed 
beside  Sir  Joshua  at  the  table,  where  he  amused  her  so 
much  with  tricks  and  stories  that  she  thought  him  the 
most  charming  man  in  the  world,  and  the  next  day  was 
delighted  to  be  taken  to  his  house,  where  she  sat  down  with 
a  face  full  of  glee,  the  expression  of  wliich  he  caught  at 
once  and  never  lost ;  and  the  affair  turned  out  every  way 
happily,  for  the  picture  did  not  fade,  and  has  till  now 
escaped  alike  the  inflictions  of  time  or  of  the  ignorant 
among  cleaners. 

Doubts  have  been  expressed  of  the  sincerity  of  Sir 
Joshua's  great  admiration  of  Michael  Angelo.  Had  he, 
on  his  return  from  Italy,  undertaken  to  decorate  a  church 
(supposing  an  opportunity)  with  imitations  of  the  Sistine 
ceiling,  I  should  doubt  his  appreciation  of  the  gi^at  works 
that  cover  it.  But  a  painter  may  sincerely  admire  Art 
very  different  from  his  own;  and  I  rest  my  belief  of  his 
full  appreciation  of  Michael  Angelo  less  on  his  "  Tragic 
Muse  "  (Mrs.  Siddons)  or  his  "  Ugolino,"  both  of  which  we 
may  in  some  degree  trace  among  the  conceptions  in  the 
Sistine  Chapel,  than  to  that  general  greatness  and  grace 
of  style  stamped  on  all  his  works.  "  Reynolds,"  says 
Sterne,  "  great  and  graceful  as  he  paints  " ;  nor  could  his 
Art  be  so  well  characterized  by  any  other  two  words. 


VHE  GREAT  PORTRAIT-PAINTERS.  179 

It  has  buen  more  than  once  intimated  that  Reynolds 
cared  for  no  other  artist's  success.  But  if  this  were  the 
case,  why  did  he  take  the  trouble  to  write  and  deliver  his 
discourses?  in  which  he  did  not  fail  to  give  all  the  in- 
struction he  could  convey,  by  words,  in  his  own  branch  of 
the  Art,  as  well  as  in  those  which  he  considered  higher. 
He  was  daily  accessible  to  all  young  artists  who  sought  his 
advice,  and  readily  lent  them  the  finest  of  his  own  works ; 
but  in  doing  this  he  always  said  to  the  portrait-painter,  "  It 
will  be  better  for  you  to  study  Vandyke."  It  is  clear,  that, 
though  he  felt  his  own  superiority  among  his  contemporaries, 
he  had  a  belief  that  British  Art'  was  advancing,  and  that 
he  should  be  'surpassed  by  future  painters ;  like  the  belief 
in  which  Shakespeare  supposes  an  ideal  mistress  to  say  of 
himself,  — 

"But  since  he  died,  and  poets  better  prove/' 

for  Reynolds,  like  all  men  of  the  loftiest  minds,  was  modest. 
Mrs.  Bray,  in  her  "  Life  of  Stothard,"  says,  with  great  truth, 
of  the  modesty  of  such  men,  that  it  "  is  not  at  all  inconsistent 
with  that  strong  internal  conviction,  which  every  man  of  real 
merit  possesses,  respecting  his  own  order  of  capacity.  He 
feels  that  Nature  has  given  him  a  stand  on  higher  ground 
than  most  of  his  contemporaries ;  but  he  does  not  look  down 
on  them,  but  above  himself.  What  he  does  is  great,  but  he 
still  feels  that  greatness  has  a  spirit  which  is  ever  mount- 
ing,  —  that  rests  on  no  summit  within  mortal  view,  but 
soars  again  and  again  in  search  of  an  ideal  height  on  which 
to  pause  and  fold  its  wings." 

Gainsborough  was  the  most  formidable  rival  of  Reynolds. 
Whether  he  felt  it  hopeless  to  make  use  of  Sir  Joshua's 
weapons,  or  whether  his  peculiar  taste  led  him  to  the 
choice  of  other  means;  he  adopted  a  system  of  chiaro- 
scuro, of  more  frequent  occurrence  in  Nature  than  those 
extremes  of  light  and  dark  which  Reynolds  managed  with 


180  CHARLES  ROBERT   LESLIE. 

such  consummate  judgment.  His  range  in  portrait  was 
more  limited,  but  within  that  range  he  is  at  times  so  de- 
lightful that  we  should  not  feel  inclined  to  exchange  a  head 
by  him  for  a  head  of  the  same  person  by  Sir  Joshua.  His 
men  are  as  thoroughly  gentlemen,  and  his  women  as  en- 
tirely ladies,  nor  had  Reynolds  a  truer  feeling  of  the  charms 
of  infancy.  Indeed  his  cottage  children  are  more  interest- 
ing because  more  natural  than  the  "  Robinettas  "  and  "  Mus- 
cipulas"  of  his  illustrious  rival,  the  only  class  of  pictures 
by  ReyieHa  in  which  mannerism  in  expression  and  attitude 
obtrudes  itself  in  the  place  of  what  is  natural.  Gains- 
borough's barefoot  child  on  her  way  to  the  well,  with  her 
little  dog  under  her  arm,  is  unequalled  by  anything  of  the 
kind  in  the  world.  I  recollect  it  at  the  British  Gallery, 
forming  part  of  a  very  noble  assemblage  of  pictures,  and 
I  could  scarcely  look  at  or  think  of  anything  else  in  the 
rooms.  This  inimitable  work  is  a  portrait,  and  not  of  a 
peasant  child,  but  of  a  young  lady,  who  appears  also  in  his 
picture  of  the  girl  and  pigs,  which  Sir  Joshua  purchased. 

That  Reynolds  and  Gainsborough  were  not  on  terms  of 
friendship  seems  to  have  been  the  fault  of  the  latter,  who, 
with  all  his  excellent  qualities,  had  not  so  equable  a  temper 
as  Sir  Joshua.  Reynolds  did  not,  as  Allan  Cunningham 
intimates,  wait  till  the  death  of  Gainsborough  to  do  justice 
to  his  genius.  The  brief  allusion  to  their  last  interview  in 
his  fourteenth  discourse,  which  is  as  modest  as  it  is  touching, 
proves  that  he  had  not  done  so ;  and  it  seems  clear  that  Sir 
Joshua  would  have  told  much  more,  had  it  not  been  to  his 
own  honor,  and  that  he  has  only  said  what  he  felt  necessary 
for  the  removal  of  any  charge  of  injustice  on  his  part. 

The  powers  of  Gainsborough,  in  portrait,  may  be  well 
estimated  by  that  charming  picture  in  the  Dulwich  Gallery, 
of  "Mrs.  Sheridan  and  Mrs.  Tickell";  and  the  whole- 
lengths  at  Hampton  Court,  of  "  Colonel  St.  Leger,"  and 
"Fisher  the  Composer." 


THK    GREAT    PORTRAIT  -PAINTERS.  181 

A  painter  may  have  great  ability,  and  yet  be  inferior  to 
those  of  whom  I  have  spoken.  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence  was 
perhaps  hindered  from  rising  to  the  highest  rank  as  a 
colorist  by  his  early  and  first  practice  of  making  portraits 
in  colorless  chalk  only.  His  wish  to  please  the  sitter  made 
him  yield  more  than  his  English  predecessors  had  done  to 
the  foolish  desire  of  most  people  to  be  painted  with  a  smile : 
though  he  was  far  from  extending  this  indulgence  to  that 
extreme  of  a  self-satisfied  simper  that  the  French  painters 
of  the  age  preceding  his  had  introduced  to  portrait.  Of 
indefatigable  industry,  Lawrence's  habit  of  undertaking  too 
many  pictures  at  the  same  time  was  a  serious  drawback, 
in  many  cases*,  to  their  excellence.  He  began  the  portraits 
of  children  which  he  did  not  finish  till  they  were  grown  up, 
and  of  gentlemen  and  ladies  while  their  hair  was  of  its  first 
color,  but  which  remained  incomplete  in  his  rooms  till  the 
originals  were  gray.  The  most  beautiful  of  his  female 
heads,  and  beautiful  it  is,  is  the  one  he  painted  of  Lady 
Elizabeth  Leveson  Gower  (afterwards  Marchioness  of  West- 
minster). This  was  begun  and  finished  off-hand;  and  so 
was  the  best  male  head  he  ever  painted,  his  first  portrait  of 
Mr.  West,  not  the  whole-length  in  the  National  Gallery,  in 
which  he  has  much  exaggerated  the  stature  of  the  original. 
He  took  especial  delight  in  painting  the  venerable  and  ami- 
able President,  who  offered  a  remarkable  instance  of  what 
I  have  described  elsewhere,  the  increase  of  beauty  in  old 
age,  and  of  whom  this  portrait  is  a  work  of  great  excel- 
lence. 

Without  any  of  those  peculiar  blandishments  of  manner, 
either  as  a  painter  or  a  man,  that  contributed  to  make 
Lawrence  the  most  popular  portrait-painter  of  his  time, 
Jackson  was  more  of  an  artist,  much  truer  in  color,  and, 
indeed,  in  this  respect  approaching  to  Reynolds,  whose 
pictures  he  sometimes  copied  so  closely  as  to  deceive  even 
Northcote.  When  his  sitters  were  ordinary  people,  his 


182  CHARLES   ROBERT   LESLIE. 

portraits  were  often  ordinary  works ;  but  when  they  were 
notable  persons,  he  exerted  all  his  powers.  The  portrait  he 
painted  of  Canova,  for  Chantrey,  is  in  all  respects  superior 
to  that  which  Lawrence  painted  of  the  great  sculptor; 
more  natural,  more  manly,  and  much  finer  in  effect.  His 
heads  of  Sir  John  Franklin  (painted  for  Mr.  Murray),  of 
Flaxman,  of  Stothard,  and  of  Listen,  are  all  admirably 
characteristic,  and  among  the  finest  portraits  of  the  British 
school ;  and  I  remember  seeing  at  Castle  Howard  his  half- 
length  of  Northcote,  hanging  in  company  with  Vandyke's 
half-length  of  Snyders,  and  a  magnificent  head  of  a  Jew 
Rabbi  by  Rembrandt,  and  well  sustaining  so  trying  a 
position.  Perfectly  amiable  in  his  nature,  nothing  pleased 
Jackson  more  than  opportunities  of  recommending  young 
painters  of  merit  to  patronage ;  and  he  introduced  Wilkie 
and  Haydon  to  Lord  Mulgrave  and  Sir  George  Beau- 
mont. With  strong  natural  sense,  playful  in  his  manner, 
and  with  a  true  relish  of  humor,  Jackson  was  a  great 
favorite  with  all  who  had  the  happiness  to  know  him,  and 
his  loss,  by  an  early  death,  was  irreparable  to  his  friends, 
and  a  very  great  one  to  Art. 

The  many  advantages  in  many  ways  resulting  from 
Photography  are  yet  but  imperfectly  appreciated;  for  its 
improvements  have  followed  each  other  so  rapidly,  that  AVC 
cannot  but  expect  many  more,  and  are  quite  in  the  dark 
as  to  what  may  be  its  next  wonder.  In  its  present  state  it 
confirms  what  has  always  been  felt  by  the  best  artists  and  the 
best  critics,  that  fac-simile  is  not  that  species  of  resemblance 
to  Nature,  even  in  a  portrait,  that  is  most  agreeable:  for 
while  the  best  calotypes  remind  us  of  mezzotint  engravings 
from  Velasquez,  Rembrandt,  or  Reynolds,  they  are  still 
inferior  in  general  effect  to  such  engravings :  and  they  thus 
help  to  show  that  the  ideal  is  equally  a  principle  of  por- 
trait-painting as  of  all  other  Art:  and  that  not  only  does 
this  consist  in  the  best  view  of  the  face,  the  best  light  and 


THE   GREAT   PORTRAIT-PAINTERS.  183 

shadow,  and  the  most  characteristic  attitude  of  the  figure, 
for  all  these  may  be  selected  for  a  photographic  picture, 
but  that  the  ideal  of  a  portrait,  like  the  ideal  of  all  Art, 
depends  on  something  which  can  only  be  communicated  by 
the  mind,  through  the  hand  and  eye,  and  without  any  other 
mechanical  intervention  than  that  of  the  pencil.  Photog- 
raphy may  tend  to  relax  the  industry  of  inferior  painters, 
but  it  may  be  hoped  and  reasonably  expected  that  it  will 
stimulate  the  exertions  of  the  best ;  for  much  may  be  learnt 
from  it  if  used  as  a  means  of  becoming  better  acquainted 
with  the  beauties  of  Nature,  but  nothing  if  resorted  to  only 
as  a  substitute  for  labor. 
t 


TO  AGE. 

BY  WALTER    SAVAGE    LANDOR 

WELCOME,  old  friend !     These  many  years 
Have  we  lived  door  by  door ; 
The  Fates  have  laid  aside  their  shears 
Perhaps  for  some  few  more. 

I  was  indocile  at  an  age 

When  better  boys  were  taught, 
But  thou  at  length  hast  made  me  sage, 

If  I  am  sage  in  aught. 

Little  I  know  from  other  men, 

Too  little  they  from  me, 
But  thou  hast  pointed  well  the  pen 

That  writes  these  lines  to  thee. 

Thanks  for  expelling  Fear  and  Hope, 

One  vile,  the  other  vain  ; 
One's  scourge,  the  other's  telescope, 

I  shall  not  see  again  ; 

Rather  what  lies  before  my  feet 

My  notice  shall  engage : 
He  who  hath  braved  Youth's  dizzy  heat 

Dreads  not  the  frost  of  Age. 


/ 

(    UNIVERSITY   ) 


THE  YOUTH  OF  MAN. 

BY  MATTHEW  ARNOLD. 


WE,  O  Nature,  depart : 
Thou  survivest  us :  this, 
This,  I  know,  is  the  law. 
Yes,  but  more  than  this, 
Thou  who  seest  us  die 
^eest  us  change  while  we  live  ; 
Seest  our  dreams  one  by  one, 
Seest  our  errors  depart : 

Watchest  us,  Nature,  throughout, 
Mild  and  inscrutably  calm. 

Well  for  us  that  we  change ! 
Well  for  us  that  the  Power 
Which  in  our  morning  prime 
Saw  the  mistakes  of  our  youth, 
Sweet  and  forgiving  and  good, 
Sees  the  contrition  of  age  ! 

Behold,  O  Nature,  this  pair ! 
See  them  to-night  where  they  stand, 
Not  with  the  halo  of  youth 
Crowning  their  brows  with  its  light, 
Not  with  the  sunshine  of  hope, 
Not  with  the  rapture  of  spring, 


186  MATTHEW  ARNOLD. 

Which  they  had  of  old,  when  they  stood 

Years  ago  at  my  side 

In  this  selfsame  garden,  and  said : 

"  We  are  young,  and  the  world  is  ours, 

For  man  is  the  king  of  the  world. 

Fools  that  these  mystics  are 

Who  prate  of  Nature !  but  she 

Has  neither  beauty,  nor  warmth, 

Nor  life,  nor  emotion,  nor  power. 

But  Man  has  a  thousand  gifts, 

And  the  generous  dreamer  invests 

The  senseless  world  with  them  all. 

Nature  is  nothing !  her  charm 
Lives  in  our  eyes  which  can  paint, 
Lives  in  our  hearts  which  can  feel ! " 

Thou,  O  Nature,  wert  mute,  — 
Mute  as  of  old :  days  flew, 
Days  and  years  ;  and  Time 
With  the  ceaseless  stroke  of  his  wings 
Brushed  off  the  bloom  from  their  soul. 
Clouded  and  dim  grew  their  eye  ; 
Languid  their  heart ;  for  Youth 
Quickened  its  pulses  no  more. 
Slowly  within  the  walls 
Of  an  ever-narrowing  world 
They  drooped,  they  grew  blind,  they  grew  old. 
Thee  and  their  Youth  in  thee, 
Nature,  they  saw  no  more. 

Murmur  of  living ! 
Stir  of  existence ! 
Soul  of  the  worlo  ' 
Make,  O  make  yourselves  felt 
To  the  dying  spirit  of  Youth. 


THE  YOUTH  OF  MAN.  187 

Come,  like  the  breath  of  spring. 

Leave  not  a  human  soul 

To  grow  old  in  darkness  and  pain. 

Only  the  living  can  feel  you  : 
But  leave  us  not  while  we  live. 

Here  they  stand  to-night,  — 
Here,  where  this  gray  balustrade 
Crowns  the  still  valley :  behind 
Is  the  castled  house  with  its  woods 
Which  sheltered  their  childhood,  the  sun 
On  its  ivied  windows  :  a  scent 
From 'the  gray-walled  garden?,  a  breath 
Of  the  fragrant  stock  and  the  pink, 
Perfumes  the  evening  air. 
Their  children  play  on  the  lawns. 
They  stand  and  listen :  they  hear 
The  children's  shouts,  and,  at  times, 
Faintly,  the  bark  of  a  dog 
From  a  distant  farm  in  the  hills :  — 
Nothing  besides :  in  front 
The  wide,  wide  valley  outspreads 
To  the  dun  horizon,  reposed 
In  the  twilight,  and  bathed  in  dew, 

Cornfield  and  hamlet  and  copse 
Darkening  fast ;  but  a  light, 
Far  off,  a  glory  of  day, 
Still  plays  on  the  city  spires : 
And  there  in  the  dusk  by  the  walls, 
With  the  gray  mist  marking  its  course 
Through  the  silent  flowery  land, 

On,  to  the  plains,  to  the  sea, 
Floats  the  Imperial  Stream. 

Well  I  know  what  they  feel. 
They  gaze,  and  the  evening  wind 


188  MATTHEW  ARNOLD. 

Plays  on  their  faces :  they  gaze ; 

Airs  from  the  Eden  of  Youth 

Awake  and  stir  in  their  soul  : 

The  Past  returns ;  they  feel 

What  they  are,  alas !  what  they  were. 

They,  not  Nature,  are  changed. 
Well  I  know  what  they  feel. 

Hush !  for  tears 
Begin  to  steal  to  their  eyes. 
Hush !  for  fruit 
Grows  from  such  sorrow  as  theirs. 

And  they  remember 
With  piercing,  untold  anguish 
The  proud  boasting  of  their  youth. 

And  they  feel  how  Nature  was  fair. 
And  the  mists  of  delusion, 
And  the  scales  of  habit, 
Fall  away  from  their  eyes. 
And  they  see,  for  a  moment, 
Stretching  out,  like  the  Desert 
In  its  weary,  unprofitable  length, 
Their  faded,  ignoble  lives 

While  the  locks  are  yet  brown  on  thy  uead, 
While  the  soul  still  looks  through  thine  eyes, 
While  the  heart  still  pours 
The  mantling  blood  to  thy  cheek, 

Sink,  O  Youth,  in  thy  soul ! 
Yearn  to  the  greatness  of  Nature  ! 
Rally  the  good  in  the  depths  of  thyself! 


HANNIBAL'S  MARCH  INTO   ITALY 


BY  DR.  ARNOLD. 


f  B^WlCE  in  history  has  there  been  witnessed  the  strug- 
i  gle  of  tbe  highest  individual  genius  against  the  re- 
sources and  institutions  of  a  great  nation ;  and  in  both 
cases  the  nation  has  been  victorious.  For  seventeen  years 
Hannibal  strove  against  Rome ;  for  sixteen  years  Napo- 
leon Bonaparte  strove  against  England :  the  efforts  of  the 
first  ended  in  Zama,  those  of  the  second  in  Waterloo. 

True  it  is,  as  Polybius  has  said,  that  Hannibal  was  sup- 
ported by  the  zealous  exertions  of  Carthage ;  and  the 
strength  of  the  opposition  to  his  policy  has  been  very  pos- 
sibly exaggerated  by  the  Roman  writers.  But  the  zeal  of 
his  country  in  the  contest,  as  Polybius  himself  remarks  in 
another  place,  was  itself  the  work  of  his  family.  Never 
did  great  men  more  show  themselves  the  living  spirit  of 
a  nation  than  Hamilcar,  and  Hasdrubal,  and  Hannibal, 
during  a  period  of  nearly  fifty  years,  approved  themselves 
to  be  to  Carthage.  It  is  not,  then,  merely  through  our 
ignorance  of  the  internal  state  of  Carthage  that  Hannibal 
stands  so  prominent  in  all  our  conceptions  of  the  second 
Punic  war ;  he  was  really  its  moving  and  directing  power, 
and  the  energy  of  his  country  was  but  a  light  reflected  from 
his  own.  History  therefore  gathers  itself  into  his  single 
pereon :  in  that  vast  tempest  which,  from  north  and  south, 
from  the  west  and  the  east,  broke  upon  Italy,  we  see  noth- 
ing but  Hannibal. 


190  DR.  ARNOLD. 

But  if  Hannibal's  genius  may  be  likened  to  the  Homeric 
god,  who  in  his  hatred  of  the  Trojans  rises  from  the  deep 
to  rally  the  fainting  Greeks,  and  to  lead  them  against  the 
enemy,  so  the  calm  courage  with  which  Hector  met  his 
more  than  human  adversary  in  his  country's  cause  is  no 
unworthy  image  of  the  unyielding  magnanimity  displayed 
by  the  aristocracy  of  Rome.  As  Hannibal  utterly  eclipses 
Carthage,  so  on  the  contrary  Fabius,  Marcellus,  Claudius, 
Nero,  even  Scipio  himself,  are  as  nothing  when  compared 
to  the  spirit  and  wisdom  and  power  of  Rome.  The  senate 
which  voted  its  thanks  to  its  political  enemy,  Varro,  after 
his  disastrous  defeat,  "  because  he  had  not  despaired  of  the 
Commonwealth,"  and  which  disdained  either  to  solicit  or  to 
reprove,  or  to  threaten,  or  in  any  way  to  notice  the  twelve 
colonies  which  had  refused  their  accustomed  supplies  of 
men  for  the  army,  is  far  more  to  be  honored  than  the  con- 
queror of  Zama.  This  we  should  the  more  carefully  bear 
in  mind,  because  our  tendency  is  to  admire  individual  great- 
ness far  more  than  national ;  and  as  no  single  Roman  will 
bear  comparison  with  Hannibal,  we  are  apt  to  murmur  at 
the  event  of  the  contest,  and  to  think  that  the  victory  was 
awarded  to  the  least  worthy  of  the  combatants.  On  the 
contrary,  never  was  the  wisdom  of  God's  providence  more 
manifest  than  in  the  issue  of  the  struggle  between  Rome 
and  Carthage.  It  was  clearly  for  the  good  of  mankind  that 
Hannibal  should  be  conquered ;  his  triumph  would  have 
stopped  the  progress  of  the  world.  For  great  men  can 
only  ant  permanently  by  forming  great  nations  ;  and  no  one 
man,  even  though  it  were  Hannibal  himself,  can  in  one  gen- 
eration effect  such  a  work.  But  where  the  nation  has  been 
merely  enkindled  for  a  while  by  a  great  man's  spirit,  the 
light  passes  away  with  him  who  communicated  it ;  and  the 
nation,  when  he  is  gone,  is  like  a  dead  body,  to  which  magic 
pow^r  had  for  a  moment  given  an  unnatural  life  :  when  the 
charm  has  ceased,  the  body  is  cold  and  stiff  as  before.  He 


HANNIBAL'S   MARCH  INTO  ITALY.  191 

who  grieves  over  the  battle  of  Zama  should  carry  on  his 
thoughts  to  a  period  thirty  years  later,  when  Hannibal  must, 
in  the  course  of  nature,  have  been  dead,  and  consider  how 
the  isolated  Phoenician  city  of  Carthage  was  fitted  to  re- 
ceive and  to  consolidate  the  civilization  of  Greece,  or  by  its 
laws  and  institutions  to  bind  together  baibarians  of  every 
race  and  language  into  an  organized  empire,  and  prepare 
them  for  becoming,  when  that  empire  Avas  dissolved,  the 
free  members  of  the  commonwealth  of  Christian  Europe. 

Hannibal  was  twenty-six  years  of  age  when  he  was  ap- 
pointed commander-in-chief  of  the  Carthaginian  armies  in 
Spain,  upon  the  sudden  death  of  Hasdrubal.  Two  years, 
we  have  seen,  Had  been  employed  in  expeditions  against  the 
native  Spaniards ;  the  third  year  was  devoted  to  the  siege 
of  Saguntum.  Hannibal's 'pretext  for  attacking  it  was,  that 
the  Saguntines  had  oppressed  one  of  the  Spanish  tribes  in 
alliance  with  Carthage  ;  but  no  caution  in  the  Saguntine 
government  could  have  avoided  a  quarrel,  which  their  en- 
emy was  determined  to  provoke.  Saguntum,  although  not  a 
city  of  native  Spaniards,  resisted  as  obstinately  as  if  the 
very  air  of  Spain  had  breathed  into  foreign  settlers  on  its 
soil  the  spirit  so  often,  in  many  different  ages,  displayed  by 
the  Spanish  people.  Saguntum  was  defended  like  Numan- 
tia  and  Gerona  :  the  siege  lasted  eight  months;  and  \\hen 
all  hope  was  gone,  several  of  the  chiefs  kindled  a  fire  in  the 
market-place,  and  after  having  thrown  in  their  most  pre- 
cious effects,  leapt  into  it  themselves,  and  perished.  Stil] 
the  spoil  found  in  the  place  was  very  considerable  ;  there 
was  a  large  treasure  of  money,  which  Hannibal  kept  for  his 
war  expenses  ;  there  were  numerous  captives,  whom  he  dis 
tributed  amongst  his  soldiers  as  their  share  of  the  plunder ; 
and  there  was  much  costly  furniture  from  the  pubh'c  and 
private  buildings,  which  he  sent  home  to  decorate  the  tem- 
ples and  palaces  of  Carthage. 

It  must  have  been   towards  the  close  of  the  year,  but 


192  DR.   ARNOLD. 

apparently  before  the  consuls  were  returned  from  Elyria, 
that  the  news  of  the  fall  of  Saguntum  reached  Rome.  Im- 
mediately ambassadors  were  sent  to  Carthage ;  M.  Fabius 
Buteo,  who  had  been  consul  seven-and-twenty  years  before, 
C.  Licinius  Varus,  and  Q.  Baebius  Tamphilus.  Their  or- 
ders were  simply  to  demand  that  Hannibal  and  his  principal 
officers  should  be  given  up  for  their  attack  upon  the  allies 
of  Rome,  in  breach  of  the  treaty,  and,  if  this  were  refused, 
to  declare  war.  The  Carthaginians  tried  to  discuss  the  pre- 
vious question,  whether  the  attack  on  Saguntum  was  a 
breach  of  the  treaty ;  but  to  this  the  Romans  would  not 
listen.  At  length  M.  Fabius  gathered  up  his  toga,  as  if  he 
was  wrapping  up  something  in  it,  and  holding  it  out  thus 
folded  together,  he  said,  "  Behold,  here  are  peace  and  war ; 
take  which  you  choose ! "  The  Carthaginian  suffete,  or 
judge,  answered,  "  Give  whichever  tliou  wilt."  Hereupon 
Fabius  shook  out  the  folds  of  his  toga,  saying,  "  Then  here 
we  give  you  war  "  ;  to  which  several  members  of  the  coun- 
cil shouted  in  answer,  "  With  all  our  hearts  we  welcome 
it."  Thus  the  Roman  ambassadors  left  Carthage,  and  re- 
turned straight  to  Rome. 

But  before  the  result  of  this  embassy  could  be  known  in 
Spain,  Hannibal  had  been  making  preparations  for  his 
intended  expedition,  in  a  manner  which  showed,  not  only 
that  he  was  sure  of  the  support  of  his  government,  but  thai 
he  was  able  to  dispose  at  his  pleasure  of  all  the  military 
resources  of  Carthage.  At  his  suggestion  fresh  troops  from 
Africa  were  sent  over  to  Spain  to  secure  it  during  his 
absence,  and  to  be  commanded  by  his  own  brother,  Has- 
drubal ;  and  their  place  was  to  be  supplied  by  other  troops 
raised  in  Spain  ;  so  that  Africa  was  to  be  defended  by 
Spaniards,  and  Spain  by  Africans,  the  soldiers  of  each 
nation,  when  quartered  amongst  foreigners,  being  cut  off 
from  all  temptation  or  opportunity  to  revolt.  So  com- 
pletely was  he  allowed  to  direct  every  military  measure, 


HANNIBAL'S  MARCH  INTO  ITALY.  193 

that  he  is  said  to  have  sent  Spanish  and  Numidian  troops 
to  garrison  Carthage  itself;  in  other  words,  this  was  a  part 
of  his  general  plan,  and  was  adopted  accordingly  by  the 
government.  Meanwhile  he  had  sent  ambassadors  into 
Gaul,  and  even  across  the  Alps,  to  the  Gauls  who  had 
so  lately  been  at  war  with  the  Romans,  both  to  obtain 
information  as  to  the  country  through  which  his  march 
lay,  and  to  secure  the  assistance  and  guidance  of  the  Gauls 
in  his  passage  of  the  Alps,  and  their  co-operation  in  arms 
when  he  should  arrive  in  Italy.  His  Spanish  troops  he  had 
dismissed  to  their  several  homes  at  the  end  of  the  last  cam- 
paign, that  they  might  carry  their  spoils  with  them,  and  tell 
of  their  exploits  to  their  countrymen,  and  enjoy,  during  the 
winter,  that  almost  listless  ease  which  is  the  barbarian's 
relief  from  war  and  plunder.  At  length  he  received  the 
news  of  the  Roman  embassy  to  Carthage,  and  the  actual 
declaration  of  war ;  his  officers  also  had  returned  from  Cis- 
alpine Gaul.  "The  natural  difficulties  of  the  passage  of 
the  Alps  were  great,"  they  said,  "  but  by  no  means  insuper- 
able ;  while  the  disposition  of  the  Gauls  was  most  friendly, 
and  they  were  eagerly  expecting  his  arrival."  Then  Han- 
nibal called  his  soldiers  together,  and  told  them  openly  that 
he  was  going  to  lead  them  into  Italy.  "  The  Romans,"  he 
said,  have  demanded  that  I  and  my  principal  officers 
should  be  delivered  up  to  them  as  malefactors.  Soldiers, 
will  you  suffer  such  an  indignity  ?  •  The  Gauls  are  holding 
out  their  arms  to  us,  inviting  us  to  come  to  them,  and  to 
assist  them  in  revenging  their  manifold  injuries.  And  the 
country  which  we  shall  invade,  so  rich  in  corn  and  wine 
and  oil,  so  full  of  flocks  and  herds,  so  covered  with  flourish- 
ing cities,  will  be  the  richest  prize  that  could  be  offered  by 
the  gods  to  reward  your  valor."  One  common  shout  from 
the  soldiers  assured  him  of  their  readiness  to  follow  him. 
He  thanked  them,  fixed  the  day  on  which  they  were  to  b« 
ready  to  march,  and  then  dismissed  them. 
13 


T.H  DR.   ARNOLD. 

In  this  interval,  and  now  on  the  very  eve  of  commencing 
his  appointed  work,  to  which  for  eighteen  years  he  had 
been  solemnly  devoted^  and  to  which  he  had  so  long  been 
looking  forward  with  almost  sickening  hope,  he  left  the 
head-quarters  of  his  army  to  visit  Gades,  and  there,  in  the 
temple  of  the  supreme  god  of  Tyre,  and  all  the  colonies  of 
Tyre,  to  olfer  his  prayers  and  vows  for  the  success  of  hi  3 
enterprise.  He  was  attended  only  by  those  immediately 
attached  to  his  person;  and  amongst  these  was  a  Sicilian 
Greek,  Silenus,  who  followed  him  throughout  his  Italian 
expedition,  and  lived  at  his  table.  When  the  sacrifice  was 
over,  Hannibal  returned  to  his  army  at  New  Carthage ; 
and,  everything  being  ready,  and  the  season  sufficiently 
advanced,  for  it  was  now  late  in  May,  he  set  out  on  his 
march  for  the  Iberus. 

And  here  the  fulness  of  his  mind,  and  his  strong  sense  of 
being  the  devoted  instrument  of  his  country's  gods  to  de- 
stroy their  enemies,  haunted  him  by  night  as  they  possessed 
him  by  day.  In  his  sleep,  so  he  told  Silenus,  he  fancied 
that  the  supreme  god  of  his  fathers  had  called  him  into  the 
presence  of  all  the  gods  of  Carthage,  who  were  sitting  on 
their  thrones  in  council.  There  he  received  a  solemn 
charge  to  invade  Italy;  and  one  of  the  heavenly  council 
went  with  him  and  with  his  army,  to  guide  him  on  his  way. 
He  went  on,  and  his  divine  guide  commanded  him,  "  See 
that  thou  look  not  behind  thee."  But  after  a  while,  im- 
patient of  the  restraint,  he  turned  to  look  back ;  and  there 
he  beheld  a  huge  and  monstrous  form,  thick-set  all  over 
with  serpents ;  wherever  it  moved  orchards  and  woods  and 
houses  fell  crushing  before  it.  He  asked  his  guide  in  won- 
der what  that  monster  form  was?  The  god  answered, 
"  Thou  seest  the  desolation  of  Italy ;  go  on  thy  way, 
straight  forward,  and  cast  no  look  behind."  Thus,  with 
no  divided  heart,  and  with  an  entire  resignation  of  all 
personal  and  domestic  enjoyments  forever,  Hannibal  went 


HANNIBAL'S  MARCH  INTO  ITALY.  195 

forth,  at  the  age  of  twenty-seven,  to  do  the  work  of  his 
country's  god«,  and  to  redeem  his  early  vow. 

The  consuls  at  Rome  came  into  office  at  this  period  on 
the  fifteenth  of  March;  it  was  possible,  therefore,  for  a  con- 
sular army  to  arrive  on  the  scene  of  action  in  time  to 
dispute  with  Hannibal,  not  only  the  passage  of  the  Rhone, 
but  that  of  the  Pyrenees.  But  the  Romans  exaggerated 
the  difficulties  of  his  march,  and  seem  to  have  expected  that 
the  resistance  of  the  Spanish  tribes  between  the  Ibems  and 
the  Pyrenees,  and  of  the  Gauls  between  the  Pyrenees  and 
the  Rhone,  would  so  delay  him  that  he  would  not  reach  the 
Rhone  till  the  end  of  the  season.  They  therefore  made 
their  preparations  leisurely. 

Of  the  consuls  for  this  year,  the  year  of  Rome  536, 
and  218  before  the  Christian  era,  one  was  P.  Cornelius 
Scipio,  the  son  of  L.  Scipio,  who  had  been  consul  in  the 
sixth  3  ear  of  the  first  Punic  war,  and  the  grandson  of  L. 
Scipio  Barbatus,  whose  services  in  the  third  Samnite  war 
are  recorded  in  his  famous  epitaph.  The  other  was  Ti. 
Sempronius  Longus,  probably,  but  not  certainly,  the  son 
of  that  C.  Sempronius  Blaesus  who  had  been  consul  in* 
the  year  501.  The  consul's  provinces  were  to  be  Spain 
and  Sicily;  Scipio,  with  two  Roman  legions,  and  15,600 
of  the  Italian  allies,  and  with  a  fleet  of  sixty  quinqueremes, 
was  to  command  in  Spain ;  Sempronius,  with  a  somewhat 
larger  army,  and  a  fleet  of  160  quinqueremes,  was  to  cross 
over  to  LilybaBum,  and  from  thence,  if  circumstances  fa- 
vored, to  make  a  descent  on  Africa,  A  third  army,  con- 
sisting also  of  two  Roman  legions,  and  11,000  of  the  allies, 
was  stationed  in  Cisalpine  Gaul,  under  the  praetor,  L.  Man- 
lius  Vulso.  The  Romans  suspected  that  the  Gauls  would 
rise  in  arms  erelong;  and  they  hastened  to  send  out  the 
colonists  of  two  colonies,  which  had  been  resolved  on  before, 
but  not  actually  founded,  to  occupy  the  important  stations  of 
Placcntia  and  Cremona  on  the  opposite  bank*  of  the  Po. 


,196  DR.  ARNOLD. 

The  colonists  sent  to  each  of  these  places  were  no  fewer 
than  six  thousand ;  and  they  received  notice  to  be  at  their 
colonies  in  thirty  days.  Three  commissioners,  one  of  them 
C.  Lutatius  Catulus,  being  of  consular  rank,  were  sent  out 
as  usual,  to  superintend  the  allotment  of  lands  to  the  set- 
tlers; and  these  12,000  men,  together  with  the  praetor's 
army,  were  supposed  to  be  capable  of  keeping  the  Gauls 
quiet. 

It  is  a  curious  fact,  that  the  danger  on  the  side  of  Spain 
was  considered  to  be  so  much  the  less  urgent,  that  Scipio's 
army  was  raised  the  last,  after  those  of  his  colleague  and  of 
the  praetor,  L.  Manlius.  Indeed,  Scipio  was  still  at  Rome, 
when  tidings  came  that  the  Boians  and  Insubrians  had 
revolted,  had  dispersed  the  new  settlers  at  Placentia  and 
Cremona,  and  driven  them  to  take  refuge  at  Mutina,  had 
treacherously  seized  the  three  commissioners  at  a  confer- 
ence, and  had  defeated  the  praetor,  L.  Manlius,  and  obliged 
him  also  to  take  shelter  in  one  of  the  towns  of  Cisalpine 
Gaul,  where  they  were  blockading  him.  One  of  Scipio's 
legions,  with  five  thousand  of  the  allies,  was  immediately 
sent  off  into  Gaul  under  another  prastor,  C.  Atilius  Ser- 
ranus ;  and  Scipio  waited  till  his  own  army  should  again  be 
completed  by  new  levies.  Thus,  he  cannot  have  left  Rome 
till  late  in  the  summer ;  and  when  he  arrived  with  his  fleet 
and  army  at  the  mouth  of  the  eastern  branch  of  the  Rhone, 
he  found  that  Hannibal  had  crossed  the  Pyrenees ;  but  he 
still  hoped  to  impede  his  passage  of  the  river. 

Hannibal,  meanwhile,  having  set  out  from  New  Carthage 
with  an  army  of  90,000  foot  and  12,000  horse,  crossed  the 
Iberus ;  and  from  thenceforward  the  hostile  operations  of 
Ids  march  began.  He  might,  probably,  have  marched 
through  the  country  between  the  Iberus  and  the  Pyrenees, 
had  that  been  his  sole  object,  as  easily  as  he  made  his  way 
from  the  Pyrenees  to  the  Rhone ;  a  few  presents  and  civili- 
ties would  easily  have  induced  the  Spanish  chiefs  to  allow 


HANNIBAL'S  MARCH  INTO   ITALY.  197 

him  a  free  passage.  But  some  of  the  tribes  northward  of 
the  Iberus  were  friendly  to  Rome :  on  the  coast  were  the 
Greek  cities  of  Rhoda  and  Emporiae,  Massalif*  colonies, 
and  thus  attached  to  the  Romans  as  the  old  allies  of  their 
mother  city :  if  this  part  of  Spain  were  left  unconquered, 
the  Romans  would  immediately  make  use  of  it  as  the  base 
of  their  operations,  and  proceed  from  thence  to  attack  the 
whole  Carthaginian  dominion.  Accordingly,  Hannibal  em- 
ployed his  army  in  subduing  the  whole  country,  which  ho 
effected  with  no  great  loss  of  time,  but  at  a  heavy  expense 
of  men,  as  he  was  obliged  to  carry  the  enemy's  strongholds 
by  assault,  ralher  than  incur  the  delay  of  besieging  them. 
He  left  Hanno  with  eleven  thousand  men  to  retain  posses- 
sion of  the  newly-conquered  country ;  and  he  further  dimin- 
ished his  army  by  sending  home  as  many  more  of  his 
Spanish  soldiers,  probably  those  who  had  most  distinguished 
themselves,  as  an  earnest  to  the  rest,  that  they  too,  if  they 
did  their  duty  well,  might  expect  a  similar  release,  and 
might  look  forward  to  return  erelong  to  their  homes  full  of 
spoil  and  of  glory.  These  detachments,  together  with  the 
heavy  loss  sustained  in  the  field,  reduced  the  force  with 
which  Hannibal  entered  Gaul  to  no  more  than  50,000  foot 
and  9,000  horse. 

From  the  Pyrenees  to  the  Rhone  his  progress  was  easy. 
Here  he  had  no  wish  to  make  regular  conquests  ;  and  pres- 
ents to  the  chiefs  mostly  succeeded  in  conciliating  their 
friendship,  so  that  he  was  allowed  to  pass  freely.  But  on 
the  left  bank  of  the  Rhone  the  influence  of  the  Massaliots 
with  the  Gaulish  tribes  had  disposed  them  to  resist  the  in- 
vader ;  and  'the  passage  of  the  Rhone  was  not  to  be  effected 
without  a  contest. 

Scipio,  by  this  time,  had  landed  his  army  near  the  east- 
ern mouth  of  the  Rhone  ;  and  his  information  of  Hannibal's 
movements  was  vague  and  imperfect.  His  men  had  suf- 
fered from  sea-sickness  on  their  voyage  from  Pisa  to  the 


108  DR.   ARNOLD. 

Rhone  ;  and  he  wished  to  give  them  a  short  time  to  recover 
their  strength  and  spirits,  before  he  led  them  against  the 
enemy.  He  still  felt  confident  that  Hannibal's  advance 
from  the  Pyrenees  must  be  slow,  supposing  that  he  would 
be  obliged  to  fight  his  way ;  so  that  he  never  doubted  that 
he  should  have  ample  time  to  oppose  his  passage  of  the 
Rhone.  Meanwhile  he  sent  out  300  horse,  with  some 
Gauls,  who  were  in  the  service  of  the  Massaliots,  ordering 
them  to  ascend  the  left  bank  of  the  Rhone,  and  discover,  if 
possible,  the  situation  of  the  enemy.  Pie  seems  to  have 
been  unwilling  to  place  the  river  on  his  rear,  and  therefore 
never  to  have  thought  of  conducting  his  opA-ations  on  the 
right  bank,  or  even  of  sending  out  reconnoitring  parties 
in  this  direction. 

The  resolution  which  Scipio  formed  a  few  days  after- 
wards, of  sending  his  army  to  Spain,  when  he  himself  re- 
turned to  Italy,  was  deserving  of  such  high  praise,  that  we 
must  hesitate  to  accuse  him  of  over  caution  or  needless 
delay  at  this  critical  moment.  Yet  he  was  sitting  idle  at 
the  mouth  of  the  Rhone,  while  the  Gauls  were  vainly 
endeavoring  to  oppose  Hannibal's  passage  of  the  river 
We  must  understand  that  Hannibal  kept  his  army  as  far 
away  from  the  sea  as  possible,  in  order  to  conceal  his  move- 
ments from  the  Romans  ;  therefore  he  came  upon  the 
Rhone,  not  on  the  line  of  the  later  Roman  road  from  Spain 
to  Italy,  which  crossed  the  river  at  Tarasco,  between  Avig- 
non and  Aries,  but  at  a  point  much  higher  up,  above  its 
confluence  with  the  Durance,  and  nearly  half-way,  if  we 
can  trust  Polybius's  reckoning,  from  the  sea  to  its  confluence 
with  the  Isere.  Here  he  obtained  from  the  natives  on  the 
right  bank,  by  paying  a  fixed  price,  all  their  boats  and  ves- 
sels of  every  description  with  which  they  were  accustomed 
to  traffic  down  the  river :  they  allowed  him  also  to  cut  tim- 
ber for  the  construction  of  others ;  and  thus  in  two  days  he 
was  provided  with  the  means  of  transporting  his  army. 


HANNIBAL'S  MARCH  INTO  ITALY.  199 

But  finding  that  the  Gauls  were  assembled  on  the  eastern 
bank  to  oppose  his  passage,  he  sent  off  a  detachment  of  his 
army  by  night  with  native  guides,  to  ascend  the  right  bank, 
for  about  two-and-twenty  miles,  and  there  to  cross  as  they 
could,  where  there  was  no  enemy  to  stop  them.  The  woods. 
which  then  lined  the  river,  supplied  this  detachment  with 
the  means  of  constructing  barks  and  rafts  enough  for  the 
passage  ;  they  took  advantage  of  one  of  the  many  islands  in 
this  part  of  the  Rhone,  to  cross  where  the  stream  was 
divided ;  and  thus  they  all  reached  the  left  bank  in  safety. 
There  they  took  up  a  strong  position,  probably  one  of  those 
strange  masses  of  rock  which  rise  here  and  there  with  steep 
cliffy  sides  like  islands  out  of  the  vast  plain,  and  rested  for 
four-and-twenty  hours  after  their  exertions  in  the  march 
and  the  passage  of  the  river. 

Hannibal  allowed  eight-and-forty  hours  to  pass  from  the 
time  when  the  detachment  left  his  camp ;  and  then,  on  the 
morning  of  the  fifth  day  after  his  arrival  on  the  Rhone,  he 
made  his  preparations  for  the  passage  of  his  main  army. 
The  mighty  stream  of  the  river,  fed  by  the  snows  of  the 
high  Alps,  is  swelled  rather  than  diminished  by  the  heats  of 
summer ;  so  that,  although  the  season  was  that  when  the 
southern  rivers  are  generally  at  their  lowest,  it  was  rolling 
the  vast  mass  of  its  waters  along  with  a  startling  fulness  and 
rapidity.  The  heaviest  vessels  were  therefore  placed  on  the 
left  highest  up  the  stream,  to  form  something  of  a  break- 
water for  the  smaller  craft  crossing  below ;  the  small  boats 
held  the  flower  of  the  light-armed  foot,  while  the  cavalry 
were  in  the  larger  vessels  ;  most  of  the  horses  being  towed 
astern  swimming,  and  a  single  soldier  holding  three  or  four 
together  by  their  bridles.  Everything  was  ready,  and  the 
Gauls  on  the  opposite  side  had  poured  out  of  their  camp, 
and  lined  the  bank  in  scattered  groups  at  the  most  accessible 
points,  thinking  that  their  task  of  stopping  the  enemy's  land- 
ing would  be  easily  accomplished.  At  length  Hannibal's 


200  DR.  ARNOLD. 

eye  observed  a  column  of  smoke  rising  on  the  farther  shore, 
above  or  on  the  right  of  the  barbarians.  This  was  the  con- 
certed signal  which  assured  him  of  the  arrival  of  his  detach- 
ment ;  and  he  instantly  ordered  his  men  to  embark,  and 
to  push  across  with  all  possible  speed.  They  pulled  vigor- 
ously against  the  rapid  stream,  cheering  each  other  to  the 
work ;  while  behind  them  were  their  friends,  cheering  them 
also  from  the  bank ;  and  before  them  were  the  Gauls  sing- 
ing their  war-songs,  and  calling  them  to  come  on  with  tones 
and  gestures  of  defiance.  But  on  a  sudden  a  mass  of  fire 
was  seen  on  the  rear* of  the  barbarians;  the  Gauls  on  the 
bank  looked  behind,  and  began  to  turn  away  from  the  river ; 
and  presently  the  bright  arms  and  white  linen  coats  of  the 
African  and  Spanish  soldiers  appeared  above  the  bank, 
breaking  in  upon  the  disorderly  line  of  the  Gauls.  Hanni- 
l»al  himself,  who  was  with  the  party  crossing  the  river, 
leaped  on  shore  amongst  the  first,  and  forming  his  men  as 
fast  as  they  landed,  led  them  instantly  to  the  charge.  But 
the  Gauls,  confused  and  bewildered,  made  little  resistance  ; 
they  fled  in  utter  rout ;  whilst  Hannibal,  not  losing  a  mo- 
ment, sent  back  his  vessels  and  boats  for  a  fresh  detachment 
of  his  army ;  and  before  night  his  whole  force,  with  the 
exception  of  his  elephants,  was  safely  established  on  the 
eastern  side  of  the  Rhone. 

As  the  river  was  no  longer  between  him  and  the  enemy, 
Hannibal  early  on  the  next  morning  sent  out  a  party  of 
Numidian  cavalry  to  discover  the  position  and  number  of 
Scipio's  forces,  and  then  called  his  army  together,  to  see  and 
hear  the  communications  of  some  chiefs  of  the  Cisalpine 
Gauls,  who  were  just  arrived  from  the  other  side  of  the 
Alps.  Their  words  were  explained  to  the  Africans  and 
Spaniards  in  the  army  by  interpreters  ;  but  the  very  sight 
of  the  chiefs  was  itself  an  encouragement ;  for  it  told  the 
soldiers  that  the  communication  with  Cisalpine  Gaul  was 
not  impracticable,  and  that  the  Gauk  had  undertaken  so 


HANNIBAL'S  MARCH  INTO   ITALY.  201 

long  a  journey  for  the  purpose  of  obtaining  the  aid  of  the 
Carthaginian  army,  against  their  old  enemies,  the  Romans. 
Besides,  the  interpreters  explained  to  the  soldiers  that  the 
chiefs  undertook  to  guide  them  into  Italy  by  a  short  and 
safe  route,  on  which  they  would  be  able  to  find  provisions ; 
and  spoke  strongly  of  the  great  extent  and  richness  of  Italy, 
when  they  did  arrive  there,  and  how  zealously  the  Gauls 
would  aid  them.  Hannibal  then  came  forward  himself  and 
addressed  his  army :  their  work,  he  said,  was  more  than  half 
accomplished  by  the  passage  of  the  Rhone ;  their  own  eyes 
and  ears  had  witnessed  the  zeal  of  their  Gaulish  allies  in 
their  cause ;  for  the  rest,  their  business  was  to  do  their  duty, 
and  obey  his  "orders  implicitly,  leaving  everything  else  to 
him.  The  cheers  and  shouts  of  the  soldiers  again  satisfied 
him  how  fully  he  might  depend  upon  them;  and  he  then 
addressed  his  prayers  and  vows  to  the  gods  of  Carthage, 
imploring  them  to  watch  over  the  army,  and  to  prosper  its 
work  to  the  end,  as  they  had  prospered  its  beginning.  The 
soldiers  were  now  dismissed,  with  orders  to  prepare  for 
their  march  on  tlie  morrow. 

Scarcely  was  the  assembly  broken  up,  when  some  of  the 
Numidians  who  had  been  sent  out  in  the  morning  were 
seen  riding  for  their  lives  to  the  camp,  manifestly  in  flight 
from  a  victorious  enemy.  Not  half  of  the  original  party 
returned ;  for  they  had  fallen  in  with  Scipio's  detachment  of 
Roman  and  Gaulish  horse,  and,  after  an  obstinate  conflict, 
had  been  completely  beaten.  Presently  after,  the  Roman 
horsemen  appeared  in  pursuit ;  but  when  they  observed  the 
Carthaginian  camp,  they  wheeled  about  and  rode  off,  to 
carry  back  word  to  their  general.  Then  at  last  Scipio  put 
his  army  in  motion,  and  ascended  the  left  bank  of  the  river 
to  find  and  engage  the  enemy.  But  when  he  arrived  at  the 
spot  where  his  cavalry  had  seen  the  Carthaginian  camp,  he 
found  it  deserted,  and  was  told  that  Hannibal  had  been  gone 
three  days,  having  marched  northwards,  ascending  the  left 


202  DR.  ARNOLD. 

bank  of  the  river.  To  follow  him  seemed  desperate :  it  was 
plunging  into  a  country  wholly  unknown  to  the  Romans, 
where  they  had  neither  allies  nor  guides,  nor  resources  of 
any  kind ;  and  where  the  natives,  over  and  above  the  com- 
mon jealousy  felt  by  all  barbarians  towards  a  foreign  army, 
were  likely,  as  Gauls,  to  regard  the  Romans  with  peculiar 
hostility.  But  if  Hannibal  could  not  be  followed  now,  he 
might  easily  be  met  on  his  first  arrival  in  Italy;  from  the 
mouth  of  the  Rhone  to  Pisa  was  the  chord  of  a  circle,  while 
Hannibal  was  going  to  make  a  long  circuit;  and  the  Ro- 
mans had  an  army  already  in  Cisalpine  Gaul;  while  the 
enemy  would  reach  the  scene  of  action  exhausted  with  the 
fatigues  and  privations  of  his  march  across  the  Alps.  Ac- 
cordingly, Scipio  descended  the  Rhone  again,  embarked  his 
army  and  sent  it  on  to  Spain  under  the  command  of  his 
brother,  Cnseus  Scipio,  as  his  lieutenant ;  while  he  himself 
in  his  own  ship,  sailed  for  Pisa,  and  immediately  crossed 
the  Apennines  to  take  the  command  of  the  forces  of  the  two 
praetors,  Manlius  and  Atilius,  who,  as  we  have  seen,  had  an 
army  of  about  25,000  men,  over  and  above  the  colonists  of 
Placentia  and  Cremona,  still  disposable  in  Cisalpine  Gaul. 

This  resolution  of  Scipio  to  send  his  own  army  on  to 
Spain,  and  to  meet  Hannibal  with  the  army  of  the  two  prae- 
tors, appears  to  show  that  he  possessed  the  highest  qualities 
of  a  general,  which  involve  the  wisdom  of  a  statesman  no 
less  than  of  a  soldier.  As  a  mere  military  question,  his 
calculation,  though  baffled  by  the  event,  was  sound ;  but  if 
we  view  it  in  a  higher  light,  the  importance  to  the  Romans 
of  retaining  their  hold  on  Spain  would  have  justified  a  far 
greater  hazard ;  for  if  the  Carthaginians  were  suffered  to 
consolidate  their  dominion  in  Spain,  and  to  avail  themselves 
of  its  immense  resources,  not  in  money  only,  but  in  men,  the 
hardiest  and  steadiest  of  barbarians,  and,  under  the  training 
of  such  generals  as  Hannibal  and  his  brother,  equal  to  the 
best  soldiers  in  the  world,  the  Romans  would  hardly  have. 


HANNIBAL'S  MARCH  INTO   ITALY.  203 

been  able  to  maintain  the  contest.  Had  not  P.  Scipio  then 
despatched  his  army  to  Spain  at  this  critical  moment,  instead 
of  carrying  it  home  to  Italy,  his  son  in  all  probability  would 
never  have  won  the  battle  of  Zama. 

Meanwhile  Hannibal,  on  the  day  after  the  skirmish  with 
Scipio's  horse,  had  sent  forward  his  infantry,  keeping  the 
cavalry  to  cover  his  operations,  as  he  still  expected  the  Ro- 
mans to  pursue  him;  while  he  himself  waited  to  super- 
intend the  passage  of  the  elephants.  These  were  thirty- 
seven  in  number ;  and  their  dread  of  the  water  made  their 
transport  a  very  difficult  operation.  It  was  effected  by 
fastening  to  the  bank  large  rafts  of  200  feet  in  length,  cov- 
ered carefully  %with  earth :  to  the  end  of  these  smaller  rafts 
were  attached,  covered  with  earth  in  the  same  manner,  and 
with  towing  lines  extended  to  a  numbeuof  the  largest  barks, 
which  were  to  tow  them  over  the  stream.  The  elephants, 
two  females  leading  the  way,  were  brought  upon  the  rafts 
by  their  drivers  without  difficulty;  and  as  soon  as  they 
came  upon  the  smaller  rafts,  these  were  cut  loose  at  once 
from  the  larger,  and  towed  out  into  the  middle  of  the  river. 
Some  of  the  elephants,  in  their  terror,  leaped  overboard, 
and  drowned  their  drivers ;  but  they  themselves,  it  is  said, 
held  their  huge  trunks  above  water,  and  struggled  to  the 
shore ;  so  that  the  whole  thirty-seven  were  landed  in  safety. 
Then  Hannibal  called  in  his  cavalry,  and  covering  his 
march  with  them  and  with  the  elephants,  set  forward  up 
the  left  bank  of  the  Rhone  to  overtake  the  infantry. 

In  four  days  they  reached  the  spot  where  the  Isere,  com- 
ing down  from  the  main  Alps,  brings  to  the  Rhone  a  stream 
hardly  less  full  or  mighty  than  his  own.  In  the  plains 
above  the  confluence  two  Gaulish  brothers  were  contending 
which  should  be  chief  of  their  tribe ;  and  the  elder  called 
in  the  stranger  general  to  support  his  cause.  Hannibal 
readily  complied,  established  him  firmly  on  the  throne,  and 
received  important  aid  from  him  in  return.  He  supplied 


204  DR.  ARNOLD. 

the  Carthaginian  army  plentifully  with  provisions,  furnished 
them  with  new  arms,  gave  them  new  clothing,  especially 
shoes,  which  were  found  very  useful  in  the  subsequent 
march,  and  accompanied  them  to  the  first  entrance  on  the 
mountain  country,  to  secure  them  from  attacks  on  the  part 
of  his  countrymen. 

The  attentive  reader,  who  is  acquainted  with  the  geogra- 
phy of  the  Alps  and  their  neighborhood,  will  perceive  that 
this  account  of  Hannibal's  march  is  vague.  It  does  not 
appear  whether  the  Carthaginians  ascended  the  left  bank  of 
the  Isere  or  the  right  bank ;  or  whether  they  continued  to 
ascend  the  Rhone  for  a  time,  and,  leaving  it  only  so  far  as  to 
avoid  the  great  angle  which  it  makes  at  Lyons,  rejoined  it 
again  just  before  they  entered  the  mountain  country,  a  little 
to  the  left  of  the  present  road  from  Lyons  to  Chamberri. 
But  these  uncertainties  cannot  now  be  removed,  because 
.Polybius  neither  possessed  a  sufficient  knowledge  of  the 
bearings  of  the  country,  nor  sufficient  liveliness  as  a  painter, 
to  describe  the  line  of  the  march  so  as  to  be  clearly  recog- 
nized. I  believe,  however,  that  Hannibal  crossed  the  Isere, 
and  continued  to  ascend  the  Rhone;  and  that  afterwards, 
striking  off  to  the  right  across  the  plains  of  Dauphine,  he 
reached  what  Polybius  calls  the  first  ascent  of  the  Alps,  at 
the  northern  extremity  of  that  ridge  of  limestone  moun- 
tains, which,  rising  abruptly  from  the  plain  to  the  height  of 
4,000  or  5,000  feet,  and  filling  up  the  whole  space  between 
the  Rhone  at  Belley  and  the  Isere  below  Grenoble,  first 
introduces  the  traveller  coming  from  Lyons  to  the  remark- 
able features  of  Alpine  scenery. 

At  the  end  of  the  lowland  country,  the  Gaulish  chief,  who 
had  accompanied  Hannibal  thus  far,  took  leave  of  him :  his 
influence  probably  did  not  extend  to  the  Alpine  valleys; 
and  the  mountaineers,  far  from  respecting  his  safe-conduct, 
might  be  in  the  habit  of  making  plundering  inroads  on  his 
own  territory.  Here  then  Hannibal  was  left  to  himself; 


HANNIBAL'S  MARCH  INTO  ITALY.  205 

and  he  found  that  the  natives  were  prepared  to  beset  hia 
passage.  They  occupied  all  such  points  as  commanded  the 
road ;  which,  as  usual,  was  a  sort  of  terrace  cut  in  the 
mountain-side,  overhanging  the  valley  whereby  it  pene- 
trated to  the  central  ridge.  But  as  the  mountain  line  is  of 
no  great  breadth  here,  the  natives  guarded  the  defile  only 
by  day,  and  withdrew  when  night  came  on  to  their  own 
homes,  in  a  town  or  village  among  the  mountains,  and  lying 
in 'the  valley  behind  them.  .Hannibal,  having  learnt 'this 
from  some  of  his  Gaulish  guides  whom  he  sent  among  them, 
encamped  in  their  sight  just  below  the  entrance  of  the  de- 
file ;  and  as  soon  as  it  was  dusk,  he  set  out  with  a  detach- 
ment of  light  *troops,  made  his  way  through  the  pass,  and 
occupied  the  positions  which  the  barbarians,  after  their  usual 
practice,  had  abandoned  at  the  approach  of  night. 

Day  dawned ;  the  main  army  broke  up  from  its  camp, 
and  began  to  enter  the  defile  ;  while  the  natives,  finding 
their  positions  occupied  by  the  enemy,  at  first  looked  on  qui- 
etly, and  offered  no  disturbance  to  the  march.  But  when 
they  saw  the  long  narrow  line  of  the  Carthaginian  army 
winding  along  the  steep  mountain-side,  and  the  cavalry  and 
baggage-cattle  struggling  at  every  step  with  the  difficulties 
of  the  road,  the  temptation  to  plunder  was  too  strong  to  be 
resisted ;  and  from  many  points  of  the  mountain  above  the 
road  they  rushed  down  upon  the  Carthaginians.  The  con- 
fusion was  terrible :  for  the  road  or  track  was  so  narrow, 
that  the  least  crowd  or  disorder  pushed  the  heavily  loaded 
baggage-cattle  down  the  steep  below  ;  and  the  horses, 
wounded  by  the  barbarians'  missiles,  and  plunging  about 
wildly  in  their  pain  and  terror,  increased  the  mischief.  At 
last  Hannibal  was  obliged  to  charge  down  from  his  position, 
which  commanded  the  whole  scene  of  confusion,  and  to 
drive  the  barbarians  off.  This  he  effected  ;  yet  the  conflict 
)f  so  many  men  on  the  narrow  road  made  the  disorder 
worse  for  a  time ;  and  he  unavoidably  occasioned  the  de- 


206  DR.  ARNOLD. 

struct  ion  of  many  of  his  own  men.  At  last,  the  barbarians 
being  quite  beaten  off,  the  army  wound  its  way  out  of  the 
defile  in  safety,  and  rested  in  the  wide  and  rich  valley  which 
extends  from  the  lake  of  Bourget,  with  scarcely  a  percep- 
tible change  of  level,  to  the  Isere  at  Montmeillan.  Hanni 
bal  meanwhile  attacked  and  stormed  the  town,  which  was 
the  barbarians'  principal  stronghold;  and  here  he  not  only 
recovered  a  great  many  of  his  own  men,  horses,  and  bag- 
gage-cattle, but  also  found  a  large  supply  of  corn  and  cattle 
belonging  to  the  barbarians,  which  he  immediately  made 
use  of  for  the  consumption  of  his  soldiers. 

In  the  plain  which  he  had  now  reached,  he  halted  for  a 
whole  day,  and  then,  resuming  his  march,  proceeded  for 
three  days  up  the  valley  of  the  Isere  on  the  right  bank, 
without  encountering  any  difficulty.  Then  the  natives  met 
him  with  branches  of  trees  in  their  hands,  and  wreaths  on 
their  heads,  in  token  of  peace :  they  spoke  fairly,  offered 
hostages,  and  wished,  they  said,  neither  to  do  the  Cartha- 
ginians any  injury,  nor  to  receive  any  from  them.  Hanni- 
bal mistrusted  them,  yet  did  not  wish  to  offend  them ;  he 
accepted  their  terms,  received  their  hostages,  and  obtained 
large  supplies  of  cattle ;  and  their  whole  behavior  seemed 
so  trustworthy,  that  at  last  he  accepted  their  guidance,  it  is 
said,  through  a  difficult  part  of  the  country,  which  he  was 
now  approaching.  For  all  the  Alpine  valleys  become  nar- 
rower, as  they  draw  nearer  to  the  central  chain ;  and  the 
mountains  often  come  so  close  to  the  stream,  that  the  roads 
in  old  times  were  often  obliged  to  leave  the  valley  and 
ascend  the  hills  by  any  accessible  point,  to  descend  again 
when  the  gorge  became  wider,  and  follow  the  stream  as 
before.  If  this  is  not  done,  and  the  track  is  carried  nearer 
the  river,  it  passes  often  through  defiles  of  the  most  formi- 
dable character,  being  no  more  than  a  narrow  ledge  above  a 
furious  torrent,  with  cliffs  rising  above  it  absolutely  precip- 
itous, and  coming  down  on  the  other  sidt  of  the  torrent 


HANNIBAL'S  MAKCH  INTO  ITALY.  207 

abruptly  to  the  water,  leaving  no  passage  by  which  man  or 
even  goat  could  make  its  way. 

It  appears  that  the  barbarians  persuaded  Hannibal  to 
pass  through  one  of  these  defiles,  instead  of  going  round  it ; 
and  while  his  army  was  involved  in  it,  they  suddenly,  and 
without  provocation,  as  we  are  told,  attacked  him.  Making 
their  way  along  the  mountain-sides  above  the  defile,  they 
rolled  down  masses  of  rock  on  the  Carthaginians  below,  or 
even  threw  stones  upon  them  from  their  hands,  stones  and 
rocks  being  equally  fatal  against  an  enemy  so  entangled. 
It  was  well  for  Hannibal,  that,  still  doubting  the  barbarians' 
faith,  he  had,  sent  forward  his  cavalry  and  baggage,  and  cov- 
ered the  march  with  his  infantry,  who  thus  had  to  sustain 
the  brunt  of  the  attack.  Foot-soldiers  on  such  ground  were 
able  to  move  where  horses  would  be  quite  helpless ;  and 
thus  at  last  Hannibal,  with  his  infantry,  forced  his  way  to 
the  summit  of  one  of  the  bare  cliffs  overhanging  the  defile, 
and  remained  there  during  the  night,  whilst  the  cavalry  and 
baggage  slowly  struggled  out  of  the  defile.  Thus  again 
baffled,  the  barbarians  made  no  more  general  attacks  on  the ' 
army ;  some  partial  annoyance  was  occasioned  at  intervals, 
and  some  baggage  was  carried  off ;  but  it  was  observed  that 
wherever  the  elephants  were  the  line  of  march  was  secure ; 
for  the  barbarians  beheld  those  huge  creatures  with  terror, 
having  never  had  the  slightest  knowledge  of  them,  and  not 
daring  to  approach  when  they  saw  them. 

Without  any  further  recorded  difficulty,  the  army  on  the 
ninth  day  after  they  had  left  the  plains  of  Dauphine  arrived 
at  the  summit  of  the  central  ridge  of  the  Alps.  Here  there 
is  always  a  plain  of  some  extent,  immediately  overhung  by 
the  snowy  summits  of  the  high  mountains,  but  itself  in 
summer  presenting  in  many  parts  a  carpet  of  the  freshest 
grass,  with  the  chalets  of  the  shepherds  scattered  over  it, 
and  gay  with  a  thousand  flowers.  But  far  different  is  its 
aspect  through  the  greatest  part  of  the  year :  then  it  is  one 


208  DR.  ARNOLD. 

unvaried  waste  of  snow ;  and  the  little  lakes,  which  on 
many  of  the  passes  enliven  the  summer  landscape,  are  now 
frozen  over  and  covered  with  snow,  so  as  to  be  no  longer 
distinguishable.  Hannibal  was  on  the  summit  of  the  Alps 
about  the  end  of  October  :  the  first  winter  snows  had 
already  fallen ;  but  two  hundred  years  before  the  Cliristian 
era,  when  all  Germany  was  one  vast  forest,  the  climate  of 
the  Alps  was  far  colder  than  at  present,  and  the  snow  lay 
on  the  passes  all  through  the  year.  Thus  the  soldiers  were 
in  dreary  quarters ;  they  remained  two  days  on  the  summit, 
resting  from  their  fatigues,  and  giving  opportunity  to  many 
of  the  stragglers,  and  of  the  horses  and  cattle,  to  rejoin 
them  by  following  their  track;  but  they  were  cold,  and 
worn,  and  disheartened  ;  and  mountains  still  rose  before 
them,  through  wKich,  as  they  knew  too  well,  even  their 
descent  might  be  perilous  and  painful. 

But  their  great  general,  who  felt  that  he  now  stood  victo- 
rious on  the  ramparts  of  Italy,  and  that  the  torrent  which 
rolled  before  him  was  carrying  its  waters  to  the  rich  plains 
of  Cisalpine  Gaul,  endeavored  to  kindle  his  soldiers  with 
his  own  spirit  of  hope.  He  called  them  together ;  he 
pointed  out  the  valley  beneath,  to  which  the  descent  seemed 
the  work  of  a  moment.  "  That  valley,"  he  said,  "  is  Italy  ;  it 
leads  us  to  the  country  of  our  friends  the  Gauls  ;  and  yon- 
der is  our  way  to  Rome."  His  eyes  were  eagerly  fixed  on 
that  point  of  the  horizon ;  and  as  he  gazed,  the  distance 
between  seemed  to  vanish,  till  he  could  almost  fancy  that 
lie  was  crossing  the  Tiber,  and  assailing  the  capitol. 

After  the  two  days'  rest  the  descent  began.  Hannibal 
experienced  no  more  open  hostility  from,  the  barbarians, 
only  some  petty  attempts  here  and  there  to  plunder  ;  a  fart 
strange  in  itself,  but  doubly  so,  if  he  was  really  descending 
the  valley  of  the  Doria  Baltea,  through  the  country  of  the 
Salassians,  the  most  untamable  robbers  of  all  the  Alpine 
barbarians.  It  is  possible  that  the  influence  of  the  Insu- 


HANNIBAL'S  MARCH  INTO  ITALY.  209 

briand  may  partly  have  restrained  the  mountaineers ;  and 
partly  also  may  they  have  been  deterred  by  the  ill  success 
of  all  former  attacks,  and  may  by  this  time  have  regarded 
the  strange  army  and  its  monstrous  beasts  with  something 
of  superstitious  terror.  But  the  natural  difficulties  of  the 
ground  on  the  descent  were  greater  than  ever.  The  snow- 
covered  the  track  so  that  the  men  often  lost  it,  and  fell  down 
the  steep  below:  at  last  they  came  to  a  place  where  au 
avalanche  had  carried  it  away  altogether  for  about  three 
hundred  yards,  leaving  the  mountain-side  a  mere  wreck  of 
scattered  rocks  and  snow.  To  go  round  was  impossible ;  for 
the  depth  of  the  snow  on  the  heights  above  rendered  it 
hopeless  to  scale  them;  nothing  therefore  was  left  but  to 
repair  the  road.  A  summit  of  some  extent  was  found,  and 
cleared  of  the  snow;  and  here  the  army  was  obliged  to 
encamp,  whilst  the  work  went  on.  There  was  no  want  of 
hands ;  and  every  man  was  laboring  for  his  life ;  the  road 
therefore  was  restored,  and  supported  with  solid  substruc- 
tions below ;  and  in  a  single  day  it  was  made  practicable  for 
the  cavalry  and  baggage-cattle,  which  were  immediately 
sent  forward,  and  reached  the  lower  valley  in  safety,  where 
they  were  turned  out  to  pasture.  A  harder  labo**  was 
required  to  make  a  passage  for  the  elephants :  the  way  for 
them  must  be  wide  and  solid ;  and  the  work  could  not  be 
accomplished  in  less  than  three  days.  The  poor  animals 
suffered  severely  in  the  interval  from  hunger ;  for  no  forage 
was  to  be  found  in  that  wilderness  of  snow,  nor  any  trees 
whose  leaves  might  supply  the  place  of  other  herbage.  At 
last  they  too  were  able  to  proceed  with  safety;  Hannibal 
overtook  his  cavalry  and  baggage ;  and  in  three  days  more 
the  whole  army  had  got  clear  of  the  Alpine  valleys,  and 
entered  the  country  of  their  friends,  the  Insubrians,  on  the 
wide  plain  of  Northern  Italy. 

Hannibal  was  arrived  in  Italy,  but  with  a  force  so  weak- 
ened by  its  losses  in  men  and  horses,  and  by  the  exhausted 
14 


210  DR.   ARNOLD. 

state  of  the  survivors,  that  he  might  seem  to  Lave  accom- 
plished his  great  march  in  vain.  According  to  his  own 
statement,  which  there  is  no  reason  to  doubt,  he  brought  out 
of  the  Alpine  valleys  no  more  than  12,000  African  and 
8,000  Spanish  infantry,  with  6,000  cavalry ;  so  that  his 
march  from  the  Pyrenees  to  the  plains  of  Northern  Italy 
must  have  cost  him  33,000  men ;  an  enormous  loss,  which 
proves  how  severely  the  army  must  have  suffered  from  the 
privations  of  the  march  and  the  severity  of  the  Alpine  cli- 
mate ;  for  not  half  of  these  33,000  men  can  have  fallen  in 
battle.  With  his  army  in  this  condition,  some  period  of 
repose  was  absolutely  necessary;  accordingly,  Hannibal 
remained  in  the  country  of  the  Insubrians  till  rest,  and  a 
more  temperate  climate,  and  wholesome  food,  with  which 
the  Gauls  plentifully  supplied  him,  restored  the  bodies  and 
spirits  of  his  soldiers,  and  made  them  again  ready  for  action. 
His  first  movement  was  against  the  Taurinians,  a  Ligurian 
people,  who  were  constant  enemies  of  the  Insubrians,  and 
therefore  would  not  listen  to  Hannibal,  when  he  invited 
them  to  join  his  cause.  He  therefore  attacked  and  stormed 
their  principal  town,  put  the  garrison  to  the  sword,  and 
struck  such  terror  into  the  neighboring  tribes,  that  they  sub- 
mitted immediately,  and  became  his  allies.  This  was  his 
first  accession  of  strength  in  Italy,  the  first-fruits,  as  he 
hoped,  of  a  long  succession  of  defections  among  the  allies 
of  Rome,  so  that  the  swords  of  the  Italians  might  effect  for 
him  the  conquest  of  Italy. 


THE    MONK    FELIX. 

BY  HENRY  W.  LONGFELLOW. 


morning,  all  alone, 
Out  of  his  convent  of  gray  stone, 
Into  the  forest,  older,  darker,  grayer, 
His  lips  moving  as  if  in  prayer, 
His  head  sunken  upon  his  breast 
As  in  a  dream  of  rest, 
Walked  the  Monk  Felix.     All  about 
The  broad,  sweet  sunshine  lay  without, 
Filling  the  summer  air  ; 
And  within  the  woodlands  as  he  trod 
The  twilight  was  like  the  Truce  of  God 
With  worldly  woe  and  care  ; 
Under  him  lay  the  golden  moss  ; 
And  above  him  the  boughs  of  hemlock-trees 
Waved,  and  made  the  sign  of  the  cross, 
And  whispered  their  Benedicites  ; 
And  from  the  ground    • 
Rose  an  odor  sweet  and  fragrant 
Of  the  wild-flowers  and  the  vagrant 
Vines  that  wandered, 
Seeking  the  sunshine,  round  and  round. 

These  he  heeded  not,  but  pondered 
On  the  volume  in  his  hand, 


212  HENRY  W.  LONGFELLOW. 

A  volume  of  Saint  Augustine, 

Wherein  he  read  of  the  unseen 

Splendors  of  God's  great  town 

In  the  unknown  land, 

And,  with  his  eyes  cast  down 

In  humility,  he  said  : 

"  I  believe,  O  God; 

What  herein  I  have  read, 

But  alas  !  I  do  not  understand !  * 

And  lo  !  he  heard 
The  sudden  singing  of  a  bird, 
A  snow-white  bird,  that  from  a  cloud 
1  Dropped  down, 
And  among  the  branches  brown 
Sat  singing 

So  sweet,  and  clear,  and  loud, 
It  seemed  a  thousand  harp-strings  ringing. 
And  the  Monk  Felix  closed  his  book, 
And  long,  long, 
With  rapturous  look, 
He  listened  to  the  song, 
And  hardly  breathed  or  stirred, 
Until  he  saw,  as  in  a  vision, 
The  land  Elysian, 
And  in  the  heavenly  city  heard 
Angelic  feet 

Fall  on  the  golden  flagging  of  the  street. 
And  he  would  fain 
Have  caught  the  wondrous  bird, 
But  strove  in  vain  ; 
For  it  flew  away,  away, 
Far  over  hill  and  dell, 
And  instead  of  its  sweet  singing 
He  heard  the  convent  bell 
Suddenly  in  the  silence  ringing 


THE  MONK  FELIX.  213 

For  the  service  of  noonday. 

And  he  retraced 

His  pathway  homeward  sadly  and  in  haste. 

In  the  convent  was  a  change ! 

He  looked  for  each  well-known  face, 

But  the  faces  were  new  and  strange ; 

New  figures  sat  in  the  oaken  stalls, 

New  voices  chanted  in  the  choir ; 

Yet  the  place  was  the  same  place, 

The  same  dusky  walls 

Of  cold,  gray  stone, 

The  some  cloisters  and  belfry  and  spire. 

A  stranger  and  alone 

Among  that  brotherhood 

The  Monk  Felix  stood. 

"  Forty  years,"  said  a  Friar, 

"  Have  I  been  Prior 

Of  this  convent  in  the  wood, 

But  for  that  space 

Never  have  I  beheld  thy  face ! " 

The  heart  of  the  Monk  Felix  fell  : 

And  he  answered,  with  submissive  tone, 

"  This  morning,  after  the  hour  of  Prime 

I  left  my  cell, 

And  wandered  forth  alone, 

Listening  all  the  time 

To  the  melodious  singing 

Of  a  beautiful  white  bird, 

Until  I  heard 

The  bells  of  the  convent  ringing 

Noon  from  their  noisy  towers. 

It  was  as  if  I  dreamed ; 


214  HENRY  W.  LONGFELLOW. 

For  what  to  me  had  seemed 
Moments  only,  had  been  hours ! " 

"  Years  !  "  said  a  voice  close  by. 

It  was  an  aged  monk  who  spoke, 

From  a  bench  of  oak 

Fastened  against  the  wall ;  — 

He  was  the  oldest  monk  of  all. 

For  a  whole  century 

Had  he  been  there, 

Serving  God  in  prayer, 

The  meekest  and  humblest  of  his  creatures. 

He  remembered  well  the  features 

Of  Felix,  and  he  said, 

Speaking  distinct  and  slow : 

"  One  hundred  years  ago, 

When  I  was  a  novice  in  this  place, 

There  was  here  a  monk,  full  of  God's  grace, 

Who  bore  the  name 

Of  Felix,  and  this  man  must  be  the  same." 

And  straightway 

They  brought  forth  to  the  light  of  day 

A  volume  old  and  brown, 

A  huge  tome,  bound 

In  brass  and  wild-boar's  hide, 

Wherein  were  written  down 

The  names  of  all  who  had  died 

In  the  convent,  since  it  was  edified. 

And  there  they  found, 

Just  as  the  old  monk  said, 

That  on  a  certain  day  and  date, 

One  hundred  years  before, 

Had  gone  forth  from  the  convent  gate 

The  Monk  Felix,  and  never  more 

Had  entered  that  sacred  door. 


THE  MONK  FL.JX.  215 

He  had  been  counted  among  the  dead ! 

And  they  knew,  at  last, 

That,  such  had  been  the  power 

Of  that  celestial  and  immortal  song, 

A  hundred  years  had  passed, 

And  had  not  seemed  so  long 

As  a  single  hour ! 


A  MOUNTAIN  CATASTROPHE. 

BY  THOMAS  DE   QUINCEY. 

THE  little  valley  of  Easedale  is  one  of  the  most  impres- 
sive solitudes  among  the  mountains  of  the  lake  district ; 
and  I  must  pause  to  describe  it.  Easedale  is  impressive, 
first,  as  a  solitude ;  for  the  depth  of  the  seclusion  is  brought 
out  and  forced  more  pointedly  upon  the  feelings  by  the  thin 
scattering  of  houses  over  its  sides,  and  the  surface  of  what 
may  be  called  its  floor.  These  are  not  above  five  or  six 
at  the  most ;  and  one,  the  remotest  of  the  whole,  was  un- 
tenanted  for  all  the  thirty  years  of  my  acquaintance  with 
the  place.  Secondly,  it  is  impressive  from  the  excessive  love- 
liness which  adorns  its  little  area.  This  is  broken  up  into 
small  fields  and  miniature  meadows,  separated  not  —  as  too 
often  happens,  with  sad  injury  to  the  beauty  of  the  lake 
country  —  by  stone-walls,  but  sometimes  by  little  hedge-rows, 
sometimes  by  little  sparkling,  pebbly  "  beck,"  lustrous  to  the 
very  bottom,  and  not  too  broad  for  a  child's  flying  leap ; 
and  sometimes  by  wild  self-sown  woodlands  of  birch,  alder, 
holly,  mountain-ash,  and  hazel,  that  meander  through  the 
valley,  intervening  the  different  estates  with  natural  sylvan 
marches,  and  giving  cheerfulness  in  winter,  by  the  bright 
scarlet  of  their  barrier.  It  is  the  character  of  all  the  north- 
ern English  valleys,  as  I  have  already  remarked,  —  and  it 
is  a  character  first  noticed  by  Wordsworth,  —  that  they 
assume,  in  their  bottom  areas,  the  level,  floor  like  shape. 


A  MOUNTAIN  CATASTROPHE.  217 

making  everywhere  a  direct  angle  with  the  surrounding 
hills,  and  definitely  marking  out  the  margin  of  their  out- 
lines ;  whereas  the  Welsh  valleys  have  too  often  the  glar- 
ing imperfection  of  the  basin  shape,  which  allows  no  sense 
of  any  absolute  valley  surface ;  the  hills  are  already  com- 
mencing at  the  very  centre  of  what  is  called  the  level  area. 
The.  little  valley  of  Easedale  is,  in  this  respect,  as  highly 
finished  as  in  every  other ;  and  in  the  Westmoreland  spring, 
which  may  be  considered  May  and  the  earlier  half  of  June, 
whilst  the  grass  in  the  meadows  is  yet  short  from  the 
habit  of  keeping  the  sheep  on  it  until  a  much  later  period 
than  elsewhere,  (viz.  until  the  mountains  are  so  far  cleared 
of  snow  and  the  probability  of  storms  as  to  make  it  safe 
to  send  them  out  on  their  summer  migration,)  the  little 
fields  of  Easedale  have  the  most  lawny  appearance,  and, 
from  the  humidity  of  the  Westmoreland  climate,  the  most 
verdant  that  it  is  possible  to  imagine;  and  on  a  gentle 
vernal  day  —  when  vegetation  has  been  far  enough  ad- 
vanced to  bring  out  the  leaves,  an  April  sun  gleaming 
coyly  through  the  clouds,  and  genial  April  rain  gently 
penciling  the  light  spray  of  the  wood  with  tiny  pearl- 
drops —  I  have  often  thought,  whilst  looking  with  silent 
admiration  upon  this  exquisite  composition  of  landscape, 
\\ith  its  miniature  fields  running  up  like  forest  glades  into 
miniature  woods ;  its  little  columns  of  smoke,  breathing  up 
like  incense  to  the  household  gods,  from  the  hearths  of  two 
or  three  picturesque  cottages,  —  abodes  of  simple,  primi- 
tive manners,  and  what,  from  personal  knowledge,  I  will 
call  humble  virtue,  —  whilst  my  eyes  rested  on  this  charm- 
ing combination  of  lawns  and  shrubberies,  I  have  thought 
that  if  a  scene  on  this  earth  could  deserve  to  be  sealed  up, 
lik'e  the  valley  of  Rasselas,  against  the  intrusion  of  the 
world,  —  if  there  were  one  to  which  a  man  would  willingly 
surrender  himself  a  prisoner  for  the  years  of  a  long  life, 
—  that  it  is  this  Easedale,  —  which  would  justify  the 


218  THOMAS   DE   QUINCE Y. 

choice,  and  recompense  the  sacrifice.  But  there  is  a  third 
advantage  possessed  by  this  Easedale,  above  other  rival 
valleys,  in  the  sublimity  of  its  mountain  barriers.  In  one 
of  its  many  rocky  recesses  is  seen  a  "  force "  (such  is  the 
local  name  for  a  cataract),  white  with  foam,  descending  at 
all  seasons  with  respectable  strength,  and  after  the  melting 
of  snows  with  an  Alpine  violence.  Follow  the  leading  of 
this  "  force  "  for  three  quarters  of  a  mile,  and  you  come  to 
a  little  mountain  lake,  locally  termed  a  "tarn,"  the  very 
finest  and  most  gloomy  sublime  of  its  class.  From  this 
tarn  it  was,  I  doubt  not,  though  applying  it  to  another, 
that  Wordsworth  drew  the  circumstances  of  his  general 
description :  — 

"  Thither  the  rainbow  comes,  the  cloud, 

And  mists  that  spread  the  flying  shroud ; 
And  winds 

That,  if  they  could,  would  hurry  past : 

But  that  enormous  barrier  binds  them  fast. 
&c.  &c.  &c. 

The  rocks  repeat  the  raven's  croak, 

In  symphony  austere/' 

And  far  beyond  this  "  enormous  barrier,"  that  thus  impris- 
ons the  very  winds,  tower  upwards  the  aspiring  heads 
(usually  enveloped  in  cloud  and  mist)  of  Glaramara,  Bow 
Fell,  and  the  other  fells  of  Langdale  Head  and  Borrow- 
dale.  Finally,  superadded  to  the  other  circumstances  of 
solitude,  arising  out  of  the  rarity  of  human  life,  and  of  the 
signs  which  mark  the  goings  on  of  human  life,  —  two  other 
accidents  there  are  of  Easedale  which  sequester  it  from 
the  world,  and  intensify  its  depth  of  solitude  beyond  what 
could  well  be  looked  for  or  thought  possible  in  any  vale 
within  a  district  so  beaten  by  modern  tourists.  One  is, 
that  it  is  a  chamber  within  a  chamber,  or  rather  a  closet 
within  a  chamber,  —  a  chapel  within  a  cathedral,  —  a  little 
private  oratory  within  a  chapel.  For  Easedale  is,  in  fact, 
a  dependency  of  Grasmere,  —  a  little  recess  lying  within 


A  MOUNTAIN  CATASTROPHE.  219 

the  same  general  basin  of  mountains,  but  partitioned  off 
by  a  screen  of  rock  and  swelling  uplands,  so  inconsiderable 
in  height,  that,  when  surveyed  from  the  commanding  sum- 
mits of  Fairfield  or  Seat  Sandal,  they  seem  to  subside  into 
the  level   area,  and  melt  into  the  general   surface.     But, 
viewed  from  below,  these   petty  heights  form  a  sufficient 
partition ;    which   is   pierced,   however,  in   two  points,  — 
once  by  the  little  murmuring  brook  threading  its  silvery 
line  onwards  to  the  -lake  of  Grasmere,  and  again  by  a  little 
rough  lane,  barely  capable  (and  I  think  not  capable  in  all 
points)  of  receiving  a  postchaise.     This  little   lane  keeps 
ascending  amongst  wooded  steeps  for  a  quarter  of  a  mile ; 
and  then,  by  a  downward  course  of  a  hundred   yards  or 
so,  brings  you  to  a  point  at  which  the  little  valley  suddenly 
bursts  upon  you  with  as  full  a  revelation  of  its  tiny  pro- 
portions  as  the    traversing  of   the   wooded    backgrounds 
will  permit     The  lane  carries  you  at  last  to  a  little  wooden 
bridge,  practicable  for  pedestrians ;  but  for  carriages,  even 
the   doubtful   road   already  mentioned   ceases    altogether: 
and  this  fact,  coupled  with  the  difficulty  of  suspecting  such 
a  lurking  paradise  from  the  high  road  through  Grasmere, 
at  every  point  of  which  the  little  hilly  partition  crowds 
up  into  one  mass  with  the  capital  barriers  in   the  rear, 
seeming,  in  fact,  not  so  much  to  blend  with  them  as  to  be 
a  part  of  them,  may  account  for  the  fortunate  neglect  of 
Easedale  in  the  tourist's   route;  and  also  because   there 
is  no  one  separate  object,  such  as  a  lake  or  a  splendid 
cataract,  to  bribe  the  interest  of  those  who  are  hunting 
after  sights;  for  the  "force"  is  comparatively  small,  and 
the  tarn  is  beyond  the  limits  of  the  vale,  as  well  as  difficult 
of  approach- 
One  other  circumstance  there  is  about  Easedale,  which 
completes  its  demarcation,  and  makes  it  as  entirely  a  land- 
locked little   park,   within  a  ring-fence  of  mountains,   as 
ever  human  art,  if  rendered  capable  of  dealing  with  moun 


220  THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY. 

tains  and  their  arrangement,  could  have  contrived.  The 
sole  approach,  as  I  have  mentioned,  is  from  Grasmere; 
and  some  one  outlet  there  must  inevitably  be  in  every  vale 
that  can  be  interesting  to  a  human  occupant,  since  without 
water  it  would  not  be  habitable ;  and  running  water  must 
force  an  exit  for  itself,  and,  consequently,  an  inlet  for  the 
world;  but,  properly  speaking,  there  is  no  other.  For, 
when  you  explore  the  remoter  end  of  the  vale,  at  which 
you  suspect  some  communication  with  the  world  outside, 
you  find  before  you  a  most  formidable  amount  of  climbing, 
the  extent  of  which  can  hardly  be  measured  where  there 
is  no  solitary  object  of  human  workmansliip  or  vestige  of 
animal  life,  not  a  sheep-track  even,  not  a  shepherd's  hovel, 
but  rock  and  heath,  heath  and  rock,  tossed  about  in  monoto- 
nous confusion.  And,  after  the  ascent  is  mastered,  you 
descend  into  a  second  vale,  —  long,  narrow,  sterile,  known 
by  the  name  of  "Far  Easedale,"  —  from  which  point,  if 
you  could  drive  a  tunnel  below  the  everlasting  hills,  per- 
haps six  or  seven  miles  might  bring  you  to  the  nearest 
habitation  of  man,  in  Borrowdale ;  but,  crossing  the  moun 
tains,  the  road  cannot  be  less  than  twelve  or  fourteen,  and, 
in  point  of  fatigue,  at  the  least  twenty.  This  long  valley, 
which  is  really  terrific  at  noonday,  from  its  utter  loneli- 
ness and  desolation,  completes  the  defences  of  little  sylvan 
Easedale.  There  is  one  door  into  it  from  the  Grasmere 
side ;  but  that  door  is  hidden ;  and  on  every  other  quarter 
there  is  no  door  at  all,  nor  any,  the  roughest,  access,  but 
what  would  demand  a  day's  walking. 

Such  is  the  solitude  —  so  deep,  so  seventimes  guarded, 
and  so  rich  in  miniature  beauty  —  of  Easedale;  and  in 
this  solitude  it  was  that  George  and  Sarah  Green,  two 
poor  and  hard-working  peasants,  dwelt,  with  a  numerous 
family  of  small  children.  Poor  as  they  were,  they  had 
won  the  general  respect  of  the  neighborhood,  from  the 
uncomplaining  firmness  with  which  they  bore  the  hard- 


A  MOUNTAIN  CATASTROPHE.  221 

of  their  lot,  and  from  the  decent  attire  in  which  the 
good  mother  of  the  family  contrived  to  send  out  her  chil- 
dren to  the  Grasmere  school.     It  is  a  custom,  and  a  very 
ancient  one,  in  Westmoreland,  —  and  I  have  seen  the  same 
usage   prevailing  in    Southern    Scotland,  —  that    any  sale 
by  auction,  whether  of  cattle,  of  farming-produce,  farming- 
stock,  wood,  or  household  furniture,  —  and  seldom  a  fort- 
night passes  without  something  of  the  sort,  —  forms  an  ex- 
cuse for  the  good  women,  throughout  the  whole  circumfer- 
ence of  perhaps  a  dozen  valleys,  to  assemble  at  the  place 
of  sale,  with  the  nominal  purpose  of  aiding  the  sale,  or  of 
buying  something  they  may  happen   to  want.     No  doubt 
the  real  business  of  the  sale  attracts  numbers ;  although  of 
late  years,  —  that  is,  for  the  last  twenty-five  years,  through 
which  so  many  sales  of  furniture  the  most  expensive  (has- 
tily made  by  casual  settlers,  on  the  wing  for  some  fresher 
novelty), — have   made    this    particular    article    almost   a 
drug  in  the  country;  and   the  interest  in  such  sales  has 
greatly  declined.     But,  in  1807,  this  fever  of  founding  vil- 
las or  cottages  ornees  was  yet  only  beginning ;  and  a  sale, 
except  it  were  of  the  sort  exclusively  interesting  to  farming- 
men,  was  a  kind  of  general  intimation  to  the  country,  from 
the  owner  of  the  property,  that  he  would,  on  that  afternoon, 
be  "at  home"  for  all  comers,  and  hoped  to  see  as  large 
an  attendance  as  possible.     Accordingly,  it  was  the  almost 
invariable  custom  —  and  often,  too,  when  the  parties  were 
far  too  poor  for  such  an  effort  of  hospitality  —  to  make 
ample  provision,  not  of  eatables,  but  of  liquor,  for  all  who 
came.     Even  a  gentleman,  who  should  happen  to  present 
himself  on   such  a  festal  occasion,  by  way  of  seeing  the 
"humors"  of  the  scene,  was  certain  of  meeting  the  most 
cordial  welcome.     The   good   woman   of  the   house  more 
particularly  testified  her  sense  of  the  honor  done  to  her 
house,  and  was  sure  to  seek  out  some  cherished  and  soli- 
tary article  of  china,  —  a  wreck  from  a  century  back,— 


222  THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY 

in  order  that  he,  being  a  porcelain  man  amongst  so  many 
delf  men  and  women,  might  have  a  porcelain  cup  to  drink 
from. 

The  main  secret  of  attraction  at  these  sales  —  many  a 
score  of  which  I  have  attended  —  was  the  social  rendez- 
vous thus  effected  between  parties  so  remote  from  each 
other  (either  by  real  distance,  or  by  the  virtual  distance 
which  results  from  a  separation  by  difficult  tracts  of  hilly 
country),  that,  in  fact,  without  some  such  common  object 
and  oftentimes  something  like  a  bisection  of  the  interval 
between  them,  they  would  not  be  likely  to  hear  of  each 
other  for  months,  or  actually  to  meet  for  years.  This 
principal  charm  of  the  "  gathering,"  seasoned,  doubtless,  to 
many  by  the  certain  anticipation  that  the  whole  budget  of 
rural  scandal  would  then  and  there  be  opened,  was  not 
assuredly  diminished  to  the  men  by  the  anticipation  of 
excellent  ale  (usually  brewed  six  or  seven  weeks  before, 
in  preparation  for  the  event),  and  possibly  of  still  more 
excellent  pow-sowdy  (a  combination  of  ale,  spirits,  and 
spices) ;  nor  to  the  women  by  some  prospect,  not  so  inev- 
itably fulfilled,  but  pretty  certain  in  a  liberal  house,  of 
communicating  their  news  over  excellent  tea.  Even  the 
auctioneer  was  always  "part  and  parcel"  of  the  mirth: 
he  was  always  a  rustic  old  humorist,  a  "  character,"  and  a 
jovial  drunkard,  privileged  in  certain  good-humored  liber- 
ties and  jokes  with  all  bidders,  gentle  or  simple,  and  fur- 
nished with  an  ancient  inheritance  of  jests  appropriate  to 
the  articles  offered  for  sale,  — jests  that  had,  doubtless,  done 
their  office  from  Elizabeth's  golden  days ;  but  no  more,  on 
that  account,  failed  of  their  expected  effect,  with  either 
man  or  woman  of  this  nineteenth  century,  than  the  sun 
fails  to  gladden  the  heart  because  it  is  that  same  old  obso- 
lete sun  that  has  gladdened  it  for  thousands  of  years. 

One  thing,  however,  in  mere  justice  to  the  poor  indige- 
nous Dalesmen  of  Westmoreland  and  Cumberland,  I  am 


A  MOUNTAIN  CATASTROPHE.  223 

bound,  in  this  place,  to  record,  that,  often  as  I  have  been  at 
these  sales,  and  through  many  a  year  before  even  a  scat- 
tering of  gentry  began  to  attend,  yet  so  true  to  the  natural 
standard  of  politeness  was  the  decorum  uniformly  main- 
tained, even  the  old  buffoon  (as  sometimes  he  was)  of  an 
auctioneer  never  forgot  himself  so  far  as  to  found  upon  any 
article  of  furniture  a  jest  that  could  have  called  up  a  pain- 
ful blush  in  any  woman's  face.  He  might,  perhaps,  go  so 
far  as  to  awaken  a  little  rosy  confusion  upon  some  young 
bride's  countenance,  when  pressing  a  cradle  upon  her  at- 
tention :  but  never  did  I  hear  him  utter,  nor  would  he  have 
been  tolerated  in  uttering,  a  scurrilous  or  disgusting  jest, 
such  as  might  easily  have  been  suggested  by  something 
offered  at  a  household  sale.  Such  jests  as  these  I  heard 
for  the  first  time  at  a  sale  in  Grasmere  in  1814,  and,  I  am 
ashamed  to  say  it,  from  some  "  gentlemen  "  of  a  great  city. 
And  it  grieved  me  to  see  the  effect,  as  it  expressed  it- 
self upon  the  manly  faces  of  the  grave  Dalesmen, —  a 
sense  of  insult  offered  to  their  women,  who  met  in  confid- 
ing reliance  upon  the  forbearance  of  the  men,  and  upon 
their  regard  for  the  dignity  of  the  female  sex,  this  feeling 
struggling  with  the  habitual  respect  they  are  inclined  to 
show  towards  what  they  suppose  gentle  blood  and  supe- 
rior education.  Taken  generally,  however,  these  were  the 
most  picturesque  and  festal  meetings  which  the  manners 
of  the  country  produced.  There  you  saw  all  ages  and 
both  sexes  assembled ;  there  you  saw  old  men  whose  heads 
would  have  been  studies  for  Guido;  there  you  saw  the 
most  colossal  and  stately  figures  amongst  the  young  men 
that  England  has  to  show ;  there  the  most  beautiful  young 
women.  There  it  was  that  sometimes  I  saw  a  lovelier  face 
than  ever  I  shall  see  again :  there  it  was  that  local  pecu- 
liarities of  usage  or  of  language  were  best  to  be  studied ; 
there  —  at  least  in  the  earlier  years  of  my  residence  in 
that  district  —  that  the  social  benevolence,  the  grave  wis- 


224  THOMAS  DE   QtHNCEY. 

dom,  the  innocent  mirth,  and  the  neighborly  kindness  of 
the  people,  most  delightfully  expanded,  and  expressed  them- 
selves with  the  least  reserve. 

To  such  a  scene  it  was,  to  a  sale  of  domestic  furniture 
at  the  house  of  some  proprietor  on  the  point  of  giving  up 
housekeeping,  perhaps  in  order  to  live  with  a  married  son 
or  daughter,  that  George  and  Sarah  Green  set  forward  in 
the  forenoon  of  a  day  fated  to  be  their  last  on  earth.  The 
sale  was  to  take  place  in  Langdale  Head ;  to  which,  from 
their  own  cottage  in  Easedale,  it  was  possible  in  daylight, 
and  supposing  no  mist  upon  the  hills,  to  find  out  a  short  cut 
of  not  more  than  eight  miles.  By  this  route  they  went ;  and 
notwithstanding  the  snow  lay  on  the  ground,  they  reached 
their  destination  in  safety.  The  attendance  at  the  sale  must 
have  been  diminished  by  the  rigorous  state  of  the  weather ; 
but  still  the  scene  was  a  gay  one  as  usual.  Sarah  Green, 
though  a  good  and  worthy  woman  in  her  maturer  years,  had 
been  imprudent,  —  and,  as  the  tender  consideration  of  the 
country  is  apt  to  express  it,  —  "  unfortunate  "  in  her  youth. 
She  had  an  elder  daughter,  and  I  believe  the  father  of  this 
girl  was  dead.  The  girl  herself  was  grown  up ;  and  the 
peculiar  solicitude  of  poor  Sarah's  maternal  heart  was  at 
this  time  called  forth  on  her  behalf:  she  wished  to  see  her 
placed  in  a  very  respectable  house,  where  the  mistress  was 
distinguished  for  her  notable  qualities  and  her  success  in 
forming  good  servants.  This  object  —  so  important  to  Sarah 
Green  in  the  narrow  range  of  her  cares,  as  in  a  more  ex- 
alted family  ft  might  be  to  obtain  a  ship  for  a  lieutenant 
that  had  passed  as  master  and  commander,  or  to  get  him 
"posted"  —  occupied  her  almost  throughout  the  sale.  A 
doubtful  answer  had  been  given  to  her  application;  and 
Sarah  was  going  about  the  crowd,  and  weaving  her  person 
in  and  out  in  order  to  lay  hold  of  this  or  that  intercessor 
who  might  have,  or  might  seem  tc  have,  some  weight  with 
the  principal  person  concerned. 


A  MOUNTAIN  CATASTROPHE.  225 

This  was  the  last  occupation  which  is  known  to  have 
stirred  the  pulses  of  her  heart.  An  illegitimate  child  is 
everywhere,  even  in  the  indulgent  society  of  Westmore- 
land Dalesmen,  under  some  shade  of  discountenance ;  so 
that  Sarah  Green  might  consider  her  duty  to  be  the  stronger 
toward  the  child  of  her  "  misfortune."  And  she  probably 
had  another  reason  for  her  anxiety  —  as  some  words  dropped 
by  her  on  this  evening  led  people  to  presume  —  in  her  con- 
scientious desire  to  introduce  her  daughter  into  a  situation 
less  perilous  than  that  which  had  compassed  her  own  youth- 
fill  steps  with  snares.  If  so,  it  is  painful  to  know  that  the 
virtuous  wish,  whose 

"  vital  warmth 
Gave  the  last  human  motion  to  the  heart," 

should  not  have  been  fulfilled.  She  was  a  woman  of  ardent 
and  affectionate  spirit,  of  which  Miss  Wordsworth's  memoir, 
or  else  her  subsequent  memorials  in  conversation,  (I  forget 
which,)  gave  some  circumstantial  and  affecting  instances, 
which  I  cannot  now  recall  with  accuracy.  This  ardor  it  was, 
and  her  impassioned  manner,  that  drew  attention  to  what 
she  did ;  for,  otherwise,  she  was  too  poor  a  person  to  be 
important  in  the  estimation  of  strangers,  and,  of  all  possible 
situations,  to  be  important  at  a  sale,  where  the  public  atten- 
tion was  naturally  fixed  upon  the  chief  purchasers,  and  the 
attention  of  the  purchasers  upon  the  chief  competitors.  Hence 
it  happened  that,  after  she  ceased  to  challenge  notice  by  the 
emphasis  of  her  solicitations  for  her  daughter,  she  ceased 
to  be  noticed  at  all ;  and  nothing  was  recollected  of  her  sub- 
sequent behavior  until  the  time  arrived  for  general  separa- 
tion. This  time  was  considerably  after  sunset;  and  the 
final  recollections  of  the  crowd  with  respect  to  George  and 
Sarah  Green  were,  that,  upon  their  intention  being  under- 
stood to  retrace  their  morning  path,  and  to  attempt  the 
perilous  task  of  dropping  down  into  Easedale  from  the 
mountains  above  Langdale  Head,  a  sound  of  remonstrance 
15 


226  THOMAS  DE  QUINCE  Y. 

arose  from  many  quarters.  However,  at  a  moment  when 
everybody  was  in  the  hurry  of  departure,  —  and,  to  persons 
of  their  mature  age,  the  opposition  could  not  be  very  ob- 
stinate,—  party  after  party  rode  off;  the  meeting  melted 
away,  or,  as  the  Northern  phrase  is,  scaled ;  and  at  length 
nobody  was  left  of  any  weight  that  could  pretend  to  influ- 
ence the  decision  of  elderly  people.  They  quitted  the  scene, 
professing  to  obey  some  advice  or  other  upon  the  choice  of 
roads ;  but,  at  as  early  a  point  as  they  could  do  so  unob- 
served, began  to  ascend  the  hills,  everywhere  open  from  the 
rude  carriage-way.  After  this,  they  were  seen  no  more. 
They  had  disappeared  into  the  cloud  of  death.  Voices  were 
heard,  some  hours  afterwards,  from  the  mountains,  —  voices, 
as  some  thought,  of  alarm ;  others  said,  no,  —  that  it  was 
only  the  voices  of  jovial  people,  carried  by  the  wind  into  un- 
certain regions.  The  result  was,  that  no  attention  was  paid 
to  the  sounds. 

That  night,  in  little  peaceful  Easedale,  six  children  sat 
by  a  peat  fire,  expecting  the  return  of  their  parents,  upon 
whom  they  depended  for  their  daily  bread.  Let  a  day 
pass,  and  they  were  starved.  Every  sound  was  heard  with 
anxiety;  for  all  this  was  reported  many  a  hundred  times 
to  Miss  Wordsworth,  and  those  who,  like  myself,  were 
never  wearied  of  hearing  the  details.  Every  sound,  every 
echo  amongst  the  hills  was  listened  to  for  five  hours,  —  from 
seven  to  twelve.  At  length,  the  eldest  girl  of  the  family  — 
about  nine  years  old  —  told  her  little  brothers  and  sisters  to 
go  to  bed.  They  had  been  taught  obedience ;  and  all  of  them, 
at  the  voice  of  their  eldest  sister,  went  off  fearfully  to  their 
beds.  What  could  be  their  fears,  it  is  difficult  to  say !  they 
had  no  knowledge  to  instruct  them  in  the  dangers  of  the 
hills ;  but  the  eldest  sister  always  averred  that  they  had  a 
deep  solicitude,  as  she  herself  had,  about  their  parents. 
Doubtless  she  had  communicated  her  fears  to  them.  Some 
time  in  the  course  of  the  evening,  —  but  it  was  late  and 


A  MOUNTAIN  CATASTKOPHE.  227 

after  midnight,  —  the  moon  arose,  and  shed  a  torrent  of  light 
upon  the  Langdale  fells,  which  had  already,  long  hours  be- 
fore, witnessed  in  darkness  the  death  of  their  parents.  It 
may  be  well  here  to  cite  Mr.  Wordsworth's  stanzas  :  — 

"  Who  weeps  for  strangers  ?     Many  wept 

For  George  and  Sarah  Green  ; 
Wept  for  that  pair's  unhappy  fate, 
Whose  graves  may  here  be  seen. 

"  By  night,  upon  these  stormy  fells, 

Did  wife  and  husband  roam ; 
Six  little  ones  at  home  had  left, 
And  could  not  find  that  home. 

"  For  any  dwelling-place  of  man 

As  vainly  did  they  seek. 
He  perished  ;  and  a  voice  was  heard  — 
The  widow's  lonely  shriek. 

"Not  many  steps,  and 'she  was  left 

A  body  without  life,  — 
A  few  short  steps  were  the  chain  that  bound 
The  husband  to  the  wife. 

"  Now  do  these  sternly-featured  hills, 

Look  gently  on  this  grave ; 
And  quiet  now  are  the  depths  of  air, 
As  a  sea  without  a  wave. 

"  But  deeper  lies  the  heart  of  peace 

In  quiet  more  profound ; 
The  heart  of  quietness  is  here 
Within  this  churchyard  bound, 

"And  from  all  agony  of  mind 
It  keeps  them  safe,  and  far 
From  fear  and  grief,  and  from  all  need 
Of  sun  or  guiding  star. 

"  O  darkness  of  the  grave !  how  deep, 

After  that  living  night,  — 
That  last  and  dreary  living  one 
Of  sorrow  and  affright ! 


228  THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY. 

"  0  sacred  marriage-bed  of  death, 
That  keeps  them  side  by  side 
In  bond  of  peace,  in  bond  of  love, 
That  may  not  be  untied  ! " 

That  night,  and  the  following  morning,  came  a  further 
and  a  heavier  fall  of  snow ;  in  consequence  of  which  the 
poor  children  were  completely  imprisoned,  and  cut  off  from 
all  possibility  of  communicating  with  their  next  neighbors. 
The  brook  was  too  much  for  them  to  leap ;  and  the'  little 
crazy  wooden  bridge  could  not  be  crossed,  or  even  ap- 
proached with  safety,  from  the  drifting  of  the  snow  having 
made  it  impossible  to  ascertain  the  exact  situation  of  some 
treacherous  hole  in  its  timbers,  which,  if  trod  upon,  would 
have  let  a  small  child  drop  through  into  the  rapid  waters. 
Their  parents  did  not  return.  For  some  hours  of  the  morn- 
ing the  children  clung  to  the  hope  that  the  extreme  severity 
of  the  night  had  tempted  them  to  sleep  in  Langdale  ;  but 
this  hope  forsook  them  as  the  day  wore  away.  Their  father, 
George  Green,  had  served  as  a  soldier,  and  was  an  active 
man,  of  ready  resources,  who  would  not,  under  any  cir- 
cumstances, have  failed  to  force  a  road  back  to  his  family, 
had  he  been  still  living ;  and  this  reflection,  or  rather  semi- 
conscious feeling,  which  the  awfulness  of  their  situation 
forced  upon  the  minds  of  all  but  the  mere  infants,  taught 
them  to  feel  the  extremity  of  their  danger.  Wonderful  it  is 
to  see  the  effect  qf  sudden  misery,  sudden  grief,  or  sudden 
fear,  (where  they  do  not  utterly  upset  the  faculties,)  in 
sharpening  the  intellectual  perceptions.  Instances  must 
have  fallen  in  the  way  of  most  of  us.  And  I  have  noticed 
frequently  that  even  sudden  and  intense  bodily  pain  is  part 
of  the  machinery  employed  by  nature  for  quickening  the 
development  of  the  mind.  The  perceptions  of  infants  aie 
not,  in  fact,  excited  gradatim  and  continuously,  but  per 
saltum,  and  by  unequal  starts.  At  least,  in  the  case  of  my 
own  children,  one  and  all,  I  have  remarked,  that,  after  any 


A  MOUNTAIN  CATASTROPHE.  229 

very  severe  fit  of  those  peculiar  pains  to  which  the  delicate 
digestive  organs  of  most  infants  are  liable,  there  always 
become  apparent  on  the  following  day  a  very  considerable 
increase  of  vital  energy  and  of  vivacious  attention  to  the  ob- 
jects around  them.  The  poor  desolate  children  of  Blentarn 
Ghyll,  hourly  becoming  more  ruefully  convinced  that  they 
were  orphans,  gave  many  evidences  of  this  awaking  power, 
as  lodgtxl  by  a  providential  arrangement,  in  situations  of 
trial  that  most  require  it.  They  huddled  together,  in  the 
evening,  round  their  hearth-fire  of  peats,  and  held  their  little 
councils  upon  what  was  to  be  done  towards  any  chance  — 
if  chance  remained  —  of  yet  giving  aid  to  their  parents; 
for  a  slender  hope  had  sprung  up  that  some  hovel  or  sheep- 
fold  might  have  furnished  them  a  screen  (or,  in  Westmore- 
land phrase,  a  bield)  against  the  weather-quarter  of  the 
storm,  in  'which  hovel  they  might  be  lying  disabled  or 
snowed  up ;  and  secondly,  as  regarded  themselves,  in  what 
way  they  were  to  make  known  their  situation,  in  case  the 
snow  should  continue  or  increase  ;  for  starvation  stared  them 
in  the  face,  if  they  should  be  confined  for  many  days  to  their 
house. 

Meantime,  the  eldest  sister,  little  Agnes,  though  sadly 
alarmed,  and  feeling  the  sensation  of  eariness  as  twilight 
came  on,  and  she  looked  out  from  the  cottage  door  to  the 
dreadful  fells,  on  which,  too  probably,  her  parents  were 
lying  corpses,  (and  possibly  not  many  hundred  yards  from 
their  own  threshold,)  yet  exerted  herself  to  take  all  the 
measures  which  their  own  prospects  made  prudent.  And 
she  told  Miss  Wordsworth,  that,  in  the  midst  of  the  oppres- 
sion on  her  little  spirit,  from  vague  ghostly  terrors,  she  did 
not  fail,  however,  to  draw  some  comfort  from  the  considera- 
tion, that  the  very  same  causes  which  produced  their  danger 
in  one  direction,  sheltered  them  from  danger  of  another 
kind,  —  such  dangers  as  she  knew,  from  books  that  she  had 
read,  would  have  threatened  a  little  desolate  flock  of  children 


230  THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY. 

in  other  parts  of  England ;  that,  if  they  could  not  get  out 
into  Grasmere,  on  the  other  hand,  bad  men,  and  wild  seafar- 
ing foreigners,  who  sometimes  passed  along  the  high  road 
in  that  vale,  could  not  get  to  them ;  and  that,  as  to  their 
neighbors,   so   far  from   having  anything  to   fear   in   that 
quarter,  their  greatest  apprehension  was  lest  they  might  not 
be  able  to  acquaint  them  with  their  situation  ;  but  that,  if 
that  could  be  accomplished,  the  very  sternest  amongst  them 
were  kind-hearted  people,  that  would  contend  with  each 
other  for  the  privilege  of  assisting  them.    Somewhat  cheered 
with  these  thoughts,  and  having  caused  all  her  brothers  and 
sisters  —  except  the  two  little  things,  not  ye"t  of  a  fit  age  — 
to  kneel  down  and  say  the  prayers  which  they  had  been 
taught,  this  admirable  little  maiden  turned  herself  to  every 
household  task  that  could  have  proved  useful  to  them  in  a 
long  captivity.     First  of  all,  upon  some  recollection  that  the 
clock  was  nearly  going  down,  she  wound  it  up.     Next,  she 
took  all  the  milk  which  remained  from  what  her  mother  had 
provided  for  the  children's  consumption  during  her  absence, 
and  for  the  breakfast  of  the  following  morning,  —  this  luck- 
ily was  still  in  sufficient  plenty  for  two  days'  consumption, 
(skimmed  or  "  blue  "  milk  being  only  one  half-penny  a  quart, 
and  the  quart  a  most  redundant  one,  in  Grasmere,)  —  this 
she  took  and  scalded,  so  as  to  save  it  from  turning  sour. 
That  done,  she  next  examined  the  meal-chest ;  made  the 
common  oatmeal  porridge  of  the  country  (the  burgoo  of  the 
royal  navy)  ;   but  put  all  of  the  children,  except  the  two 
youngest,  on  short  allowance ;  and,  by  way  of  reconciling 
them  in  some  measure  to  this  stinted  meal,  she  found  out  a 
little  hoard  of  flour,  part  of  which  she  baked  for  them  upon 
the  hearth  into  little  cakes  ;  and  this  unusual  delicacy  per- 
suaded them  to  think  that  they  had  been  celebrating  a  feast. 
Next,  before  night  coming  on  should  make  it  too  trying  to 
her  own  feelings,  or  before  fresh  snow  coming  on  might  make 
it  impossible,  she  issued  out  of  doors.     There  her  first  task 


A  MOUNTAIN  CATASTKOPHE.  231 

was,  vdth  the  assistance  of  two  younger  brothers,  to  cawy 
in  from  the  peat-stack  as  many  peats  as  might  serve  them  for 
a  week's  consumption.  That  done,  in  the  second  place,  she 
examined  the  potatoes,  buried  in  "  brackens  "  (that  is,  with- 
ered fern)  :  these  were  not  many ;  and  she  thought  it  better 
to  leave  them  where  they  were,  excepting  as  many  as  would 
make  a  single  meal,  under  a  fear  that  the  heat  of  their  cot- 
tage would  spoil  them,  if  removed. 

Having  thus  made  all  the  provision  in  her  power  for 
supporting  their  own  lives,  she  turned  her  attention  to  the 
cow.  Her  she  milked ;  but,  unfortunately  the  milk  she 
gave,  either  from  being  badly  fed,  or  from  some  other  cause, 
was  too  trifling  to  be  of  much  consideration  towards  the 
wants  of  a  large  family.  Here,  however,  her  chief  anxiety 
was  to  get  down  the  hay  for  the  cow's  food  from  a  loft  above 
the  outhouse;  and  in  this  she  succeeded  but  imperfectly, 
from  want  of  strength  and  size  to  cope  with  the  difficulties 
of  the  case ;  besides  that  the  increasing  darkness  by  this 
time,  together  with  the  gloom  of  the  place,  made  it  a  matter 
of  great  self-conquest  for  her  to  work  at  all;  and,  as  re- 
spected one  night  at  any  rate,  she  placed  the  cow  in  a  situa- 
tion of  luxurious  warmth  and  comfort.  Then  retreating 
into  the  warm  house,  and  "  barring  "  the  door,  she  sat  down 
to  undress  the  two  youngest  of  the  children  ;  them  she  laid 
carefully  and  cosily  in  their  little  nests  up-stairs,  and  sang 
them  to  sleep.  The  rest  she  kept  up  to  bear  her  company 
until  the  clock  should  tell  them  it  was  midnight;  up  to 
which  time  she  had  still  a  lingering  hope  that  some  welcome 
shout  from  the  hills  above,  which  they  were  all  to  strain 
their  ears  to  catch,  might  yet  assure  them  that  they  were 
not  wholly  orphans,  even  though  one  parent  should  have 
perished.  No  shout,  it  may  be  supposed,  was  ever  heard ; 
nor  could  a  shout,  in  any  case,  have  been  heard,  for  the 
night  was  one  of  tumultuous  wind.  And  though,  amidst  its 
ravings,  sometimes  they  fancied  a  sound  of  voices,  still,  in 


232  THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY. 

the  de.id  lulls  that  now  and  then  succeeded,  they  heard 
nothing  to  confirm  their  hopes.  As  last  services  to  what  she 
might  now  have  called  her  own  little  family,  Agnes  took 
precautions  against  the  drifting  of  the  snow  within  the  door 
and  the  imperfect  window  which  had  caused  them  some  dis- 
comfort on  the  preceding  day ;  and,  finally,  she  adopted  the 
most  systematic  and  elaborate  plans  for  preventing  the  pos- 
sibility of  their  fire  being  extinguished,  which,  in  the  event 
of  their  being  thrown  upon  the  ultimate  resource  of  their 
potatoes,  would  be  absolutely  (and  in  any  event  nearly)  in- 
dispensable to  their  existence. 

The  night  slipped  away,  and  another  morning  came, 
bringing  with  it  no  better  hopes  of  any  kind.  Change  there 
had  been  none  but  for  the  worse.  The  snow  had  greatly 
increased  in  quantity ;  and  the  drifts  seemed  far  more  for- 
midable. A  second  day  passed  like  the  first ;  little  Agnes 
still  keeping  her  little  flock  quiet,  and  tolerably  comfortable ; 
and  still  calling  on  all  the  elders  in  succession  to  say  their 
prayers,  morning  and  night. 

A  third*  day  came ;  and  whether  it  was  on  that  or  on 
the  fourth,  I  do  not  now  recollect ;  but  on  one  or  other  there 
came  a  welcome  gleam  of  hope.  The  arrangement  of  the 
snow-drifts  had  shifted  during  the  night ;  and  though  the 
wooden  bridge  was  still  impracticable,  a  low  wall  had  been 
exposed,  over  which,  by  a  very  considerable  circuit,  and 
crossing  the  low  shoulder  of  a  hill,  it  seemed  possible  that  a 
road  might  be  found  into  Grasmere.  In  some  walls  it  was 
necessary  to  force  gaps  ;  but  this  was  effected  without  much 
difficulty,  even  by  children,  for  the  Westmoreland  walls  are 
always  "open,"  that  is,  uncemented  with  mortar,  and  the 
push  of  a  stick  will  readily  detach  so  much  from  the  upper 
part  of  an  old  crazy  field  wall,  as  to  lower  it  sufficiently  for 
female  or  for  childish  steps  to  pass.  The  little  boys  accom- 
panied their  sister  until  she  came  to  the  other  side  of  the 
hill,  which,  lying  more  sheltered  from  the  weather,  and  to 


A  MOUNTAIN  CATASTROPHE.  233 

windward,  offered  a  path  onwards  comparatively  easy.  Here 
they  parted ;  and  little  Agnes  pursued  her  solitary  mission 
to  the  nearest  house  she  could  find  accessible  in  Grasmere. 

No  house  could  have  proved  a  wrong  one  in  such  a  case. 
Miss  Wordsworth  and  I  often  heard  the  description  renewed 
of  the  horror  which,  in  an  instant,  displaced  the  smile  of 
hospitable  greeting,  when  little  weeping  Agnes  told  her  sad 
tale.  No  tongue  can  express  the  fervid  sympathy  which 
travelled  through  the  vale,  like  the  fire  in  an  American 
forest,  when  it  was  learned  that  neither  George  nor  Sarah 
Green  had  been  seen  by  their  children  since  the  day  of  the 
Langdale  sale.  "Within  half  an  hour,  or  little  more,  from 
the  remotest  parts  of  the  valley,  —  some  of  them  distant 
nearly  two  miles  from  the  point  of  rendezvous,  —  all  the 
men  of  Grasmere  had  assembled  at  the  little  cluster  of  cot- 
tages called  "  Kirktown,"  from  their  adjacency  to  the  vener- 
able parish  church  of  St.  Oswald.  There  were  at  the  time 
I  settled  in  Grasmere  (viz.  in  the  spring  of  1809,  and, 
therefore,  I  suppose  at  this  time,  fifteen  months  previously) 
about  sixty-three  households  in  the  vale,  and  the  total  num- 
ber of  souls  was  about  two  hundred  and  sixty-five  ;  so  that 
the  number  of  fighting  men  would  be  about  sixty  or  sixty- 
six,  according  to  the  common  way  of  computing  the  proper* 
tion  ;  and  the  majority  were  so  athletic  and  powerfully  built, 
that,  at  the  village  games  of  wrestling  and  leaping,  Pro- 
fessor Wilson,  and  some  visitors  of  his  and  mine,  scarcely 
one  cf  whom  was  under  five  feet  eleven  in  height,  with  pro- 
portionable breadth,  seem  but  middle-sized  men  amongst  the 
towering  forms  of  the  Dalesmen.  Sixty  at  least,  after  a 
short  consultation  as  to  the  plan  of  operations,  and  for 
arranging  the  kind  of  signals  by  which  they  were  to  com- 
municate from  great  distances,  and  in  the  perilous  events  of 
mists  or  snow-storms,  set  off,  with  the  speed  of  Alpine  hun- 
ters, to  the  hills.  The  dangers  of  the  undertaking  were 
considerable,  under  the  uneasy  and  agitated  state  of  the 


234  THOMAS  DE  QUINCE Y. 

weather ;  and  all  the  women  of  the  vale  were  in  the  greatest 
anxiety,  until  night  brought  them  back,  in  a  body,  unsuc- 
cessful. Three  days  at  the  least,  and  I  rather  think  five, 
the  search  was  ineffectual ;  which  arose  partly  from  the 
great  extent  of  the  ground  to  be  examined,  and  partly  from 
the  natural  mistake  made  of  ranging  almost  exclusively  on 
the  earlier  days  on  that  part  of  the  hills  over  which  the  path 
of  Easedale  might  be  presumed  to  have  been  selected  under 
any  reasonable  latitude  of  circuitousness.  But  the  fact  is, 
when  the  fatal  accident  (for  such  it  has  often  proved)  of  a 
permanent  mist  surprises  a  man  on  the  hills,  if  he  turns  and 
loses  his  direction,  he  is  a  lost  man  ;  and  without  doing  this 
so  as  to  lose  the  power  of  s'orienter  in  one  instant,  it  is  well 
known  how  difficult  it  is  to  avoid  losing  it  insensibly  and  by 
degrees.  Baffling  snow-showers  are  the  worst  kind  of  mists. 
And  the  poor  Greens  had,  under  that  kind  of  confusion, 
wandered  many  a  mile  out  of  their  proper  track. 

The  zeal  of  the  people,  meantime,  was  not  in  the  least 
abated,  but  rather  quickened,  by  the  wearisome  disappoints 
ments ;  every  hour  of  daylight  was  turned  to  account ;  no 
man  of  the  valley  ever  came  home  to  dinner ;  and  the  reply 
of  a  young  shoemaker,  on  the  fourth  night's  return,  speaks 
sufficiently  for  the  unabated  spirit  of  the  vale.  Miss  Words- 
worth asked  what  he  would  do  on  the  next  morning.  "  Go 
up  again,  of  course,"  was  his  answer.  But  what  if  to-mor- 
row also  should  turn  out  like  all  the  rest  ?  "  Why,  go  up  in 
stronger  force  on  the  next  day."  Yet  this  man  was  sacri- 
ficing his  own  daily  earnings  without  a  chance  of  recom- 
pense. At  length  sagacious  dogs  were  taken  up ;  and, 
about  noonday,  a  shout  from  an  aerial  height,  amongst  thick 
volumes  of  cloudy  vapor,  propagated  through  repeating  bands 
of  men  from  a  distance  of  many  miles,  conveyed  as  by  tele- 
graph the  news  that  the  bodies  were  found.  George  Green 
was  found  lying  at  the  bottom  of  a  precipice,  from  which  he 
had  fallen.  Sarah  Green  was  found  on  the  summit  of  the 


A  MOUNTAIN  CATASTROPHE.  235 

precipice ;  and,  by  laying  together  all  the  indications  of 
what  had  passed,  the  sad  hieroglyphics  of  their  last  agonies, 
it  was  conjectured  that  the  husband  had  desired  his  wife  to 
pause  for  a  few  minutes,  wrapping  her,  meantime,  in  his  own 
great-coat,  whilst  he  should  go  forward  and  reconnoitre  the 
ground,  in  order  to  catch  a  sight  of  some  object  (rocky  peak, 
or  tarn,  or  peat-field)  which  might  ascertain  their  real  situa- 
tion. Either  the  snow  above,  already  lying  in  drifts,  or  the 
blinding  snow-storms  driving  into  his  eyes,  must  have  misled 
him  as  to  the  nature  of  the  circumjacent  ground ;  for  the 
precipice  over  which  he  had  fallen  was  but  a  few  yards  from 
the  spot  in  which  he  had  quitted  his  wife.  The  depth  of 
the  descent,  and  the  fury  of  the  wind  (almost  always  violent 
on  these%  cloudy  altitudes),  would  prevent  any  distinct  com- 
munication between  the  dying  husband  below  and  his  de- 
spairing wife  above  ;  but  it  was  believed  by  the  shepherds 
best  acquainted  with  the  ground  and  the  range  of  sound  as 
regarded  the  capacities  of  the  human  ear,  under  the  proba- 
ble circumstances  of  the  storm,  that  Sarah  might  have 
caught,  at  intervals,  the  groans  of  her  unhappy  partner,  sup- 
posing that  his  death  were  at  all  a  lingering  one.  Others, 
on  the  contrary,  supposed  her  to  have  gathered  this  catas- 
trophe rather  from  the  want  of  any  sounds,  and  from  his 
continued  absence,  than  from  any  one  distinct  or  positive 
expression  of  it;  both  because  the  smooth  and  unruffled 
surface  of  the  snow  where  he  lay  seemed  to  argue  that  he 
had  died  without  a  struggle,  perhaps  without  a  groan,  and 
because  that  tremendous  sound  of  "  hurtling  "  in  the  upper 
chambers  of  the  air,  which  often  accompanies  a  snow-storm, 
when  combined  with  heavy  gales  of  wind,  would  utterly 
oppress  and  stifle  (as  they  conceived)  any  sounds  so  feeble 
as  those  from  a  dying  man.  In  any  case,  and  by  whatever 
sad  language  of  sounds  or  signs,  positive  or  negative,  ,°he 
might  have  learned  or  guessed  her  loss,  it  was  generally 
aep-eed  that  the  wild  shrieks  heard  towards  midnight  in 


236  THOMAS  DE  QUINCKY. 

Langdale  Head  announced  the  agonizing  moment  which 
brought  to  her  now  widowed  heart  the  conviction  of  utter 
desolation  and  of  final  abandonment  to  her  own  fast-fleeting 
energies.  It  seemed  probable  that  the  sudden  disappear- 
ance of  her  husband  from  her  pursuing  eyes  would  teach  her 
to  understand  his  fate,  and  that  the  consequent  indefinite 
apprehension  of  instant  death  lying  all  around  the  point  on 
which  she  sat  had  kept  her  stationary  to  the  very  attitude 
in  which  her  husband  left  her,  until  her  failing  powers  and 
the  increasing  bitterness  of  the  cold,  to  one  no  longer  in 
motion,  would  soon  make  those  changes  of  place  impossible, 
which,  at  any  rate,  had  appeared  too  dangerous.  The  foot- 
steps in  some  places,  wherever  drifting  had  not  obliterated 
them,  yet  traceable  as  to  the  outline,  though  partially  filled 
up  with  later  falls  of  snow,  satisfactorily  showed  that,  how- 
ever much  they  might  have  rambled,  after  crossing  and 
doubling  upon  their  own  paths,  and  many  a  mile  astray 
from  their  right  track,  still  they  must  have  kept  together  to 
the  very  plateau  or  shelf  of  rock  at  which  their  wanderings 
had  terminated  ;  for  there  were  evidently  no  steps  from  this 
plateau  in  the  retrograde  order. 

By  the  time  they  had  reached  this  final  stage  of  their 
erroneous  course,  all  possibility  of  escape  must  have  been 
long  over  for  both  alike ;  because  their  exhaustion  must 
have  been  excessive  before  they  could  have  reached  a  point 
so  remote  and  high  ;  and,  unfortunately,  the  direct  result  of 
all  this  exhaustion  had  been  to  throw  them  farther  off  their 
home,  or  from  "  any  dwelling-place  of  man,"  than  they  were 
at  starting.  Here,  therefore,  at  this  rocky  pinnacle,  hope 
was  extinct  for  either  party.  But  it  was  the  impression  of 
the  vale,  that,  perhaps  within  half  an  hour  before  reaching 
this  fatal  point,  George  Green  might,  had  his  conscience  or 
his  heart  allowed  him  in  so  base  a  desertion,  have  saved 
himself  singly,  without  any  very  great  difficulty.  It  is  to  be 
hoped,  however,  —  and,  for  my  part,  I  think  too  well  of 


A   MOUNTAIN  CATASTROPHE.  237 

human  nature  to  hesitate  in  believing,  —  that  not  many, 
even  amongst  the  meaner-minded  and  the  least  generous  of 
men,  could  have  reconciled  themselves  to  the  abandonment 
of  a  poor  fainting  female  companion  in  such  circumstances. 
Still,  though  not  more  than  a  most  imperative  duty,  it  was 
one  (I  repeat)  which  most  of  his  associates  believed  to  have 
cost  him  (perhaps  consciously)  his  life.  For  his  wife  not 
only  must  have  disabled  him  greatly  by  clinging  to  his  arm 
for  support ;  but  it  was  known,  from  her  peculiar  charactei 
and  manner,  that  she  would  be  likely  to  rob  him  of  his 
coolness  and  presence  of  mind  by  too  painfully  fixing  his 
thoughts,  where  her  own  would  be  busiest,  upon  their  help- 
less little  family.  "  Stung  with  the  thoughts  of  home,"  —  to 
borrow,  the  fine  expression  of  Thomson  in  describing  a  sim- 
ilar case,  —  alternately  thinking  of  the  blessedness  of  that 
warm  fireside  at  Blentarn  Ghyll,  which  was  not  again  to 
spread  its  genial  glow  through  her  freezing  limbs,  and  of 
those  darling  little  faces  which,  in  this  world,  she  was  to  see 
no  more  ;  unintentionally,  and  without  being  aware  even  of 
that  result,  she  would  rob  the  brave  man  (for  such  he  was) 
of  his  fortitude,  and  the  strong  man  of  his  animal  resources. 
And  yet,  —  (such  in  the  very  opposite  direction,  was  equally 
the  impression  universally  through  Grasmere,)  —  had  Sarah 
Green  foreseen,  could  her  affectionate  heart  have  guessed 
even  the  tenth  part  of  that  love  and  neighborly  respect  for 
herself  which  soon  afterwards  expressed  themselves  in  show- 
ers of  bounty  to  her  children  ;  could  she  have  looked  behind 
the  curtain  of  destiny  sufficiently  to  learn  that  the  very  des- 
olation of  these  poor  children  which  wrung  her  maternal 
heart,  and  doubtless  constituted  to  her  the  sting  of  death, 
would  prove  the  signal  and  the  pledge  of  such  anxious 
guardianship  as  not  many  rich  men's  children  receive,  and 
that  this  overflowing  offering  to  her  own  memory  would  not 
be  a  hasty  or  decaying  tribute  of  the  first  sorrowing  sensi- 
bilities, but  would  pursue  her  children  steadily  until  their 


238  THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY. 

hopeful  settlement  in  life,  —  or  anything  approaching  this, 
to  have  known  or  have  guessed,  would  have  caused  her  (as 
all  said  who  knew  her)  to  welcome  the  bitter  end  by  which 
such  privileges  were  to  be  purchased. 

The  funeral  of  the  ill-fated  Greens  was,  it  may  be  sup- 
posed, attended  by  all  the  vale ;  it  took  place  about  eight 
days  after  they  were  found ;  and  the  day  happened  to  be  in 
the  most  perfect  contrast  to  the  sort  of  weather  which  pre- 
vailed at  the  time  of  their  misfortune :  some  snow  still 
remained  here  and  there  upon  the  ground  ;  but  the  azure  of 
the  sky  was  unstained  by  a  cloud,  and  a  golden  sunlight 
seemed  to  sleep,  so  balmy  and  tranquil  was  the  season,  upon 
the  very  hills  where  they  had  wandered,  —  then  a  howling 
wilderness,  but  now  a  green  pastoral  lawn,  in  its  lower 
ranges,  and  a  glittering  expanse,  smooth,  apparently,  and 
riot  difficult  to  the  footing,  of  virgin  snow,  hi  its  higher. 
George  Green  had,  I  believe,  an  elder  family  by  a  former 
wife  ;  and  it  was  for  some  of  these  children,  who  lived  at  a 
distance,  and  who  wished  to  give  their  attendance  at  the 
grave,  that  the  funeral  was  delayed.  After  this  solemn 
ceremony  was  over,  —  at  which,  by  the  way,  I  then  heard 
Miss  Wordsworth  say  that  the  grief  of  Sarah's  illegitimate 
daughter  was  the  most  overwhelming  she  had  ever  wit- 
nessed, —  a  regular  distribution  of  the  children  was  made 
amongst  the  wealthier  families  of  the  vale.  There  had 
already,  and  before  the  funeral,  been  a  perfect  struggle  to 
obtain  one  of  the  children,  amongst  all  who  had  any  facili- 
ties for  discharging  the  duties  of  such  a  trust ;  and  even  the 
poorest  had  put  in  their  claim  to  bear  some  part  in  the 
expenses  of  the  case.  But  it  was  judiciously  decided  that 
none  of  the  children  should  be  intrusted  to  any  persons  who 
seemed  likely,  either  from  old  age  or  from  slender  means,  or 
from  nearer  and  more  personal  responsibilities,  to  be  under 
the  necessity  of  devolving  the  trust,  sooner  or  later,  upon 
strangers,  who  might  have  none  of  that  interest  in  the  chil- 


A  MOUNTAIN  CATASTROPHE.  239 

dren  which  attached,  in  their  minds,  the  Grasmere  people  to 
the  circumstances  that  made  them  orphans.  Two  twins, 
who  had  naturally  played  together  and  slept  together  from 
their  birth,  passed  into  the  same  family :  the  others  were 
dispersed  ;  but  into  such  kind-hearted  and  intelligent  fami- 
lies, with  continued  opportunities  of  meeting  each  other  on 
errands,  or  at  church,  or  at  sales,  that  it  was  hard  to  say 
which  had  the  happier  fate.  And  thus  in  so  brief  a  period 
as  one  fortnight,  a  household  that,  by  health  and  strength, 
by  the  humility  of  poverty,  and  by  innocence  of  life,  seemed 
sheltered  from  all  attacks  but  those  of  time,  came  to  be 
utterly  broken  up.  George  and  Sarah  Green  slept  in  Gras- 
mere churchyard,  never  more  to  know  the  want  of  "  sun  or 
guiding  star."  Their  children  were  scattered  over  wealthier 
houses  than  those  of  their  poor  parents,  through  the  vales  of 
Grasmere  or  Rydal ;  and  Blentarn  Ghyll,  after  being  shut 
up  for  a  season,  and  ceasing  for  months  to  send  up  its  little 
slender  column  of  smoke  at  morning  and  evening,  finally 
passed  into  the  hands  of  a  stranger. 


THRENODY. 

BY  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

THE  South-wind  brings 
Life,  sunshine,  and  desire, 
And  on  every  mount  and  meadow 
Breathes  aromatic  fire ; 
But  over  the  dead  he  has  no  power, 
The  lost,  the  lost,  he  cannot  restore ; 
And,  looking  over  the  hills,  I  mourn 
The  darling  who  shall  not  return. 

I  see  my  empty  house, 

I  see  my  trees  repair  their  boughs ; 

And  he,  the  wondrous  child, 

Whose  silver  warble  wild 

Outvalued  every  pulsing  sound 

Within  the  air's  cerulean  round,  — 

The  hyacinthine  boy,  for  whom 

Morn  well  might  break  and  April  bloom,  • 

The  gracious  boy,  who  did  adorn 

The  world  whereinto  he  was  born, 

And  by  his  countenance  repay 

The  favor  of  the  loving  Day,  — 

Has  disappeared  from  the  Day's  eye  ; 

Far  and  wide  she  cannot  find  him  ; 

My  hopes  pursue,  they  cannot  bind  him. 


THRENODY.  241 

Returned  this  day,  the  South-wind  searches, 
And  finds  young  pines  and  budding  birches ; 
But  finds  not  the  budding  man  ; 
Nature,  who  lost,  cannot  remake  him  ; 
Fate  let  him  fall,  Fate  can't  retake  him ; 
Nature,  Fate,  men,  him  seek  in  vain. 

And  whither  now,  my  truant  wise  and  sweet, 

0,  whither  tend  thy  feet  ? 

I  had  the  right,  few  days  ago, 

Thy  steps  to  watch,  thy  place  to  know ; 

How  have  I  forfeited  the  right  ? 

Hast  thou  forgot  me  in  a  new  delight  ? 

I  hearken  for  thy  household  cheer, 

O  eloquent  child ! 

Whose  voice,  an  equal  messenger, 

Conveyed  thy  meaning  mild. 

What  though  the  pains  and  joys 

Whereof  it  spoke  were  toys 

Fitting  his  age  and  ken, 

Yet  fairest  dames  and  bearded  men, 

Who  heard  the  sweet  request, 

So  gentle,  wise,  and  grave, 

Bended  with  joy  to  his  behest, 

And  let  the  world's  affairs  go  by, 

Awhile  to  share  his  cordial  game, 

Or  mend  his  wicker  wagon-frame, 

Still  plotting  how  their  hungry  ear 

That  winsome  voice  again  might  hear ; 

For  his  lips  could  well  pronounce 

Words  that  were  persuasions. 

Gentlest  guardians  marked  serene 
His  early  hope,  his  liberal  mien ; 
16 


M2  KALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

Took  counsel  from  his  guiding  eyes 
To  make  this  wisdom  earthly  wise. 
Ah,  vainly  do  these  eyes  recall 
The  school-march,  each  day's  festival, 
When  every  morn  my  bosom  glowed 
To  watch  the  convoy  on  the  road ; 
The  babe  in  willow  wagon  closed, 
With  rolling  eyes  and  face  composed ; 
With  children  forward  and  behind, 
Like  Cupids  studiously  inclined ; 
And  he  the  chieftain  paced  beside, 
The  centre  of  the  troop  allied, 
With  sunny  face  of  sweet  repose, 
To  guard  the  babe  from  fancied  foes. 
The  little  captain  innocent 
Took  the  eye  with  him  as  he  went ; 
Each  village  senior  paused  to  scan 
And  speak  the  lovely  caravan. 
From  the  window  I  look  out 
To  mark  thy  beautiful  parade, 
Stately  marching  in  cap  and  coat 
To  some  tune  by  fairies  played ;  — 
A  music  heard  by  thee  alone 
To  works  as  noble  led  thee  on. 

Now  Love  and  Pride,  alas !  in  vain, 
Up  and  down  their  glances  strain. 
The  painted  sled  stands  where  it  stood ; 
The  kennel  by  the  corded  wood ; 
The  gathered  sticks  to  stanch  the  wall 
Of  the  snow-tower,  when  snow  should  fall ; 
The  ominous  hole  he  dug  in  the  sand, 
And  childhood's  castles  built  or  planned ; 
His  daily  haunts  I  well  discern,  — 
The  poultry-yard,  the  shed,  the  barn,  — 


THRENODY.  243 

And  every  inch  of  garden  ground 

Paced  by  the  blessed  feet  around, 

From  the  roadside  to  the  brook 

Whereinto  lie  loved  to  look. 

Step  the  meek  birds  where  erst  they  ranged ; 

The  wintry  garden  lies  unchanged  ; 

The  brook  into  the  stream  runs  on ; 

But  the  deep-eyed  boy  is  gone. 

On  that  shaded  day, 

Dark  with  more  clouds  than  tempests  are, 

When  thou  didst  yield  thy  innocent  breatli 

In  bird-like  heavings  unto  death, 

Night  came,  and  Nature  had  not  thee ; 

I  said,  "  We  are  mates  in  misery." 

The  morrow  dawned  with  needless  glow ; 

Each  snow-bird  chirped,  each  fowl  must  crow ; 

Each  tramper  started  ;  but  the  feet 

Of  the  most  beautiful  and  sweet 

Of  human  youth  had  left  the  hill 

And  garden,  —  they  were  bound  and  stilL 

There 's  not  a  sparrow  or  a  wren, 

There 's  not  a  blade  of  autumn  grain, 

Which  the  four  seasons  do  not  tend, 

And  tides  of  life  and  increase  lend ; 

And  every  chick  of  every  bird, 

And  weed  and  rock-moss  is  preferred. 

O  ostrich-like  forgetfulness ! 

O  loss  of  larger  in  the  less ! 

Was  there  no  star  that  could  be  sent, 

No  watcher  in  the  firmament, 

No  angel  from  the  countless  host 

That  loiters  round  the  crystal  coast, 

Could  stoop  to  heal  that  only  child, 

Nature's  sweet  marvel  undefiled, 

And  keep  the  blossom  of  the  earth, 

Which  all  her  harvests  were  not  worth  ? 


244  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

Not  mine,  —  I  never  call  thee  mine. 

But  Nature's  heir,  —  if  I  repine, 

And  seeing  rashly  torn  and  moved 

Not  what  I  made,  but  what  I  loved, 

Grow  early  old  with  grief  that  thou 

Must  to  the  wastes  of  Nature  go,  — 

'T  is  because  a  general  hope 

Was  quenched,  and  all  must  doubt  and  grope. 

For  flattering  planets  seemed  to  say 

This  child  should  ills  of  ages  stay, 

By  wondrous  tongue,  and  guided  pen, 

Bring  the  flown  Muses  back  to  men. 

Perchance  not  he  but  Nature  ailed, 

The  world  and  not  the  infant  failed. 

It  was  not  ripe  yet  to  sustain 

A  genius  of  so  fine  a  strain, 

Who  gazed  upon  the  sun  and  moon 

As  if  he  came  unto  his  own, 

And,  pregnant  with  his  grander  thought, 

Brought  the  old  order  into  doubt. 

His  beauty  once  their  beauty  tried ; 

They  could  not  feed  him,  and  he  died, 

And  wandered  backward  as  in  scorn, 

To  wait  an  aeon  to  be  born. 

HI  day  which  made  this  beauty  waste, 

Plight  broken,  this  high  face  defaced ! 

Some  went  and  came  about  the  dead ; 

And  some  in  books  of  solace  read ; 

Some  to  their  friends  the  tidings  say  ; 

Some  went  to  write,  some  went  to  pray 

One  tarried  here,  there  hurried  one  ; 

But  their  heart  abode  with  none. 

Covetous  death  bereaved  us  all, 

To  aggrandize  one  funeral. 

The  eager  fate  which  carried  thee 

Took  the  largest  part  of  me : 


THRENODY.  245 

For  this  losing  is  true  dying ; 
This  is  lordly  man's  down-lying, 
This  his  slow  but  sure  reclining, 
Star  by  star  his  world  resigning. 

0  child  of  paradise, 

Boy  who  made  dear  his  father's  home, 

In  whose  deep  eyes 

Men  read  the  welfare  of  the  times  to  come, 

1  am  too  much  bereft. 

The  world  dishonored  thou  hast  left. 
O  truth's  and  nature's  costly  lie  I 
O  trusted  broken  prophecy ! 
0  richest  fortune  sourly  crossed ! 
Born  for  the  future,  to  the  future  lost ! 

THE  deep  Heart  answered,  "  Weepest  thou  ? 

Worthier  cause  for  passion  wild 

If  I  had  not  taken  the  child. 

And  deemest  thou  as  those  who  pore, 

With  aged  eyes,  short  way  before,  — 

Think'st  Beauty  vanished  from  the  coast 

Of  matter,  and  thy  darling  lost  ? 

Taught  he  not  thee  —  the  man  of  eld, 

Whose  eyes  within  his  eyes  beheld 

Heaven's  numerous  hierarchy  span 

The  mystic  gulf  from  God  to  man  ? 

To  be  alone  wilt  thou  begin 

When  worlds  of  lovers  hem  thee  in  ? 

To-morrow,  when  the  masks  shall  fall 

That  dizen  Nature's  carnival, 

The  pure  shall  see  by  their  own  will, 

Which  overflowing  Love  shall  fill, 

T  is  not  within  the  force  of  fate 

The  fate-conjoined  to  separate. 


246  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

But  thou,  my  votary,  weepest  thou  ? 

I  gave  thee  sight  —  where  is  it  now  ? 

I  taught  thy  heart  beyond  the  reach 

Of  ritual,  bible,  or  of  speech  ; 

Wrote  in  thy  mind's  transparent  table, 

As  far  as  the  incommunicable  ; 

Taught  thee  each  private  sign  to  raise, 

Lit  by  the  supersolar  blaze. 

Past  utterance,  and  past  belief, 

And  past  the  blasphemy  of  grief, 

The  mysteries  of  Nature's  heart ; 

And  though  no  Muse  can  these  impart, 

Throb  thine  with  Nature's  throbbing  breast, 

And  all  is  clear  from  east  to  west. 

u  I  came  to  thee  as  to  a  friend ; 
Dearest,  to  thee  I  did  not  send 
Tutors,  but  a  joyful  eye, 
Innocence  that  matched  the  sky, 
Lovely  locks,  a  form  of  wonder, 
Laughter  rich  as  woodland  thunder, 
That  thou  might'st  entertain  apart 
The  richest  flowering  of  all  art : 
And  as  the  great  all-loving  Day 
Through  smallest  chambers  takes  its  way, 
That  thou  might'st  break  thy  daily  bread 
With  prophet,  saviour,  and  head  ; 
That  thou  might'st  cherish  for  thine  own 
The  riches  of  sweet  Mary's  Son, 
Boy-Rabbi,  Israel's  paragon. 
And  thoughtest  thou  such  guest 
Would  in  thy  hall  take  up  his  rest  ? 
Would  rushing  life  forget  her  laws, 
Fate's  glowing  revolution  pause  ? 
High  omens  ask  diviner  guess  ; 
Not  to  be  conned  to  tediousness. 


THRENODY.  247 

And  know  my  higher  gifts  unbind 
The  zone  that  girds  the  incarnate  mind. 
When  the  scanty  shores  are  full 
With  Thought's  perilous,  whirling  pool ; 
When  frail  Nature,  can  no  more, 
Then  the  Spirit  strikes  the  hour : 
My  servant  Death,  with  solving  rite, 
Pours  finite  into  infinite. 

"  Wilt  thou  freeze  love's  tidal  flow, 

Whose  streams  through  nature  circling  go  ? 

Nail  the  wild  star  to  its  track 

On  the  half-climbed  zodiac  ? 

Light  is  light  which  radiates, 

Blood  is  blood  which  circulates, 

Life  is  life  which  generates, 

And  many-seeming  life  is  one,  — 

Wilt  thou  transfix  and  make  it  none  ? 

Its  onward  force  too  starkly  pent 

In  figure,  bone,  and  lineament  ? 

Wilt  thou,  uncalled,  interrogate, 

Talker !  the  unreplying  Fate  ? 

Nor  see  the  genius  of  the  whole 

Ascendant  in  the  private  soul, 

Beckon  it  when  to  go  and  come, 

Self-announced  its  hour  of  doom? 

Fair  the  soul's  recess  and  shrine, 

Magic-built  to  last  a  season ; 

Masterpiece  of  love  benign ; 

Fairer  than  expansive  reason 

Whose  omen  't  is,  and  sign. 

Wilt  thou  not  ope  thy  heart  to  know 

What  rainbows  teach,  and  sunsets  show  ? 

Verdict  which  accumulates 

From  lengthening  scroll  of  human  fates, 


248  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

Voice  of  earth  to  earth  returned, 
Prayers  of  saints  that  inly  burned,  — 
Saying,  What  is  excellent. 
As  God  lives,  is  permanent ; 
Hearts  are  dust,  hearts'  loves  remain  ; 
Hearts  love  will  meet  thee  again. 
Revere  the  Maker ;  fetch  thine  eye 
Up  to  his  style,  and  manners  of  the  sky. 
Not  of  adamant  and  gold 
Built  he  heaven  stark  and  cold ; 
No,  but  a  nest  of  bending  reeds, 
Flowering  grass,  and  scented  weeds  ; 
Or  like  a  traveller's  fleeing  tent, 
Or  bow  above  the  tempest  bent ; 
Built  of  tears  and  sacred  flames, 
And  virtue  reaching  to  its  aims ; 
Built  of  furtherance  and  pursuing, 
Not  of  spent  deeds,  but  of  doing. 
Silent  rushes  the  swift  Lord 
Through  ruined  systems  still  restored, 
Broadsowing,  bleak  and  void  to  bless, 
Plants  with  worlds  the  wilderness ; 
Waters  with  tears  of  ancient  sorrow 
Apples  of  Eden  ripe  to-morrow. 
House  and  tenant  go  to  ground, 
Lost  in  God,  in  Godhead  found." 


LAST  DAYS  OF  SIR  WAITER  SCOTT. 

BY  JOHN  G.  LOCKHART. 


THE  last  jotting  of  Sir  Walter's  Diary —  perhaps  the 
last  specimen  of  his  handwriting  —  records  his  starting 
from  Naples  on  the  16th  of  April,  1832.    After  the  llth 
of  May  the  story  can  hardly  be  told  too  briefly. 

The  irritation  of  impatience,  which  had  for  a  moment 
been  suspended  by  the  aspect  and  society  of  Rome,  re- 
turned the  moment  he  found  himself  on  the  road,  and 
seemed  to  increase  hourly.  His  companions  could  with 
difficulty  prevail  on  him  to  see  even  the  Falls  of  Terni,  or 
the  Church  of  Santa  Croce,  at  Florence.  On  the  17th,  a 
cold  and  dreary  day,  they  passed  the  Apennines,  and  dined 
on  the  top  of  the  mountains.  The  snow  and  the  pines  re- 
called Scotland,  and  he  expressed  pleasure  at  the  sight  of 
them.  That  night  they  reached  Bologna,  and  he  would 
see  none  of  the  interesting  objects  there,  —  and  next  day, 
hurrying  in  like  manner  through  Ferrara,  he  proceeded 
as  far  as  Monselice.  On  the  19th  he  arrived  at  Venice; 
and  he  remained  there  till  the  23d;  but  showed  no  curi- 
osity about  anything  except  the  Bridge  of  Sighs  and  the 
adjoining  dungeons,  —  down  into  which  he  would  scramble, 
though  the  exertion  was  exceeding  painful  to  him.  On 
the  other  historical  features  of  that  place  —  one  so  sure  in 
other  days  to  have  inexhaustible  attractions  for  him  —  lie 
would  not  even  look ;  and  it  was  the  same  with  all  that  he 


(« 


250  JOHN  G.  LOCKHART. 

came  within  reach  of — even  with  the  fondly  anticipated 
chapel  at  Inspruck  —  as  they  proceeded  through  the  Tyrol, 
and  so  onwards,  by  Munich,  Ulm,  and  Heidelberg,  to 
Frankfort.  Here  (June  5)  he  entered  a  bookseller's  shop ; 
and  the  people  seeing  an  English  party,  brought  out 
among  the  first  things  a  lithographed  print  of  Abbotsford. 
He  said,  "  I  know  that  already,  sir,"  and  hastened  back  to 
the  inn  without  being  recognized.  Though  in  some  parts 
of  the  journey  they  had  very  severe  weather,  he  repeat- 
edly wished  to  travel  all  the  night  as  well  as  all  the  day ; 
and  the  symptoms  of  an  approaching  fit  were  so  obvious, 
that  he  was  more  than  once  bled,  ere  they  reached  May- 
ence,  by  the  hand  of  his  affectionate  domestic. 

At  this  town  they  embarked  on  the  8th  June  in  the 
Rhine  steamboat;  and  while  they  descended  the  famous 
river  through  its  most  picturesque  region,  he  seemed  to 
enjoy,  though  he  said  nothing,  the  perhaps  unrivalled 
scenery  it  presented  to  him.  His  eye  was  fixed  on  the 
successive  crags  and  castles,  and  ruined  monasteries,  each 
of  which  had  been  celebrated  hi  some  German  ballad  fa- 
miliar to  his  ear,  and  all  of  them  blended  in  the  immortal 
panorama  of  Childe  Harold.  But  so  soon  as  he  resumed 
his  carriage  at  Cologne,  and  nothing  but  flat  shores,  and 
here  and  there  a  grove  of  poplars  and  a  village  spire  were 
offered  to  the  vision,  the  weight  of  misery  sunk  down  again 
upon  him.  It  was  near  Nimeguen,  on  the  evening  of  the 
9th,  that  he  sustained  another  serious  attack  of  apoplexy, 
combined  with  paralysis.  Nicolson's  lancet  restored,  after 
the  lapse  of  some  minutes,  the  signs  of  animation ;  but  this 
was  the  crowning  blow.  Next  day  he  insisted  on  resuming 
his  journey,  and  on  the  llth  was  lifted  from  the  carriage 
into  a  steamboat  at  Rotterdam. 

He  reached  London  about  six  o'clock  on  the  evening  of 
Wednesday  the  13th  of  June.  Owing  to  the  unexpected 
rapidity  of  the  journey  his  eldest  daughter  had  had  no 


LAST  DAYS  OF  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT.  251 

notice  when  to  expect  him;  and  fearful  of  finding  her 
either  out  of  town,  or  unprepared  to  receive  him  and  his 
attendants  under  her  roof,  Charles  Scott  drove  to  the  St. 
James's  hotel,  in  Jennyn  Street,  and  established  his  quar- 
ters there  before  he  set  out  in  quest  of  his  sister  and  myself. 
When  we  reached  the  hotel,  he  recognized  us  with  every 
mark  of  tenderness,  but  signified  that  he  was  totally  ex- 
hausted; so  no  attempt  was  made  to  remove  him  further, 
and  he  was  put  to  bed  immediately.  Dr.  Ferguson  saw 
him  the  same  night,  and  next  day  Sir  Henry  Halford  and 
Dr.  Holland  saw  him  also;  and  during  the  next  three 
weeks  the  two  former  visited  him  daily,  while  Ferguson 
was  scarcely  absent  from  his  pillow.  The  Major  was  soon 
on  the  spot  To  his  children,  all  assembled  once  more 
about  him,  he  repeatedly  gave  his  blessing  in  a  very  solemn 
manner,  as  if  expecting  immediate  death,  but  he  was  never 
in  a  condition  for  conversation,  and  sunk  either  into  sleep 
or  delirious  stupor  upon  the  slightest  effort. 

Mrs.  Thomas  Scott  came  to  town  as  soon  as  she  heard 
of  his  arrival,  and  remained  to  help  us.  She  was  more 
than  once  recognized  and  thanked.  Mr.  Cadell,  too,  ar- 
rived from  Edinburgh,  to  render  any  assistance  in  his 
power.  I  think  Sir  Walter  saw  no  other  of  his  friends  ex- 
cept Mr.  John  Richardson,  and  him  only  once.  As  usual, 
he  woke  up  at  the  sound  of  a  familiar  voice,  and  made  an 
attempt  to  put  forth  his  hand,  but  it  dropped  powerless,  and 
he  said,  with  a  smile,  "Excuse  my  hand."  Richardson 
made  a  struggle  to  suppress  his  emotion,  and  after  a  mo- 
ment, got  out  something  about  Abbotsford  and  the  woods 
which  he  had  happened  to  see  shortly  before.  The  eye 
brightened,  and  he  said,  "How  does  Kirklands  get  on?" 
Mr.  Richardson  had  lately  purchased  the  estate  so  called 
on  the  Teviot,  and  Sir  Walter  had  left  him  busied  with 
plans  of  building.  His  friend  told  him  that  his  new  house 
was  begun,  and  that  the  Marquis  of  Lothian  had  very 


252  JOHN  G.  LOCKHART. 

kindly  lent  him  one  of  his  own,  meantime,  in  its  vicinity, 
"  Ay,  Lord  Lothian  is  a  good  man,"  said  Sir  Walter ;  "  he 
is  a  man  from  whom  one  may  receive  a  favor,  and  that 's 
saying  a  good  deal  for  any  man  in  these  days."  The  stu- 
por then  sank  back  upon  him,  and  Richardson  never  heard 
his  voice  again.  This  state  of  things  continued  till  the 
beginning  of  July. 

During  those  melancholy  weeks  great  interest  and  sym- 
pathy were  manifested.  Allan  Cunningham  mentions  that, 
walking  home  late  one  night,  he  found  several  working- 
men  standing  together  at  the  corner  of  Jermyn  Street,  and 
one  of  them  asked  him,  as  if  there  was  but  one  death-bed 
in  London,  "  Do  you  know,  sir,  if  this  is  the  street  where 
he  is  lying  ? "  The  inquiries  both  at  the  hotel  and  at  my 
house  were  incessant ;  and  I  think  there  was  hardly  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Royal  family  who  did  not  send  every  day.  The 
newspapers  teemed  with  paragraphs  about  Sir  Walter ;  and 
one  of  these,  it  appears,  threw  out  a  suggestion  that  his 
travels  had  exhausted  his  pecuniary  resources,  and  that  if 
he  were  capable  of  reflection  at  all,  cares  of  that  sort  might 
probably  harass  his  pillow.  This  paragraph  came  from  a 
very  ill-informed,  but,  I  dare  say,  a  well-meaning  quarter. 
It  caught  the  attention  of  some  members  of  the  then  gov- 
ernment; and,  in  consequence,  I  received  a  private  com- 
munication to  the  effect  that,  if  the  case  were  as  stated,  Sir 
Walter's  family  had  only  to  say  what  sum  would  relieve 
him  from  embarrassment,  and  it  would  be  immediately 
advanced  by  the  Treasury.  The  then  Paymaster  of  the 
Forces,  Lord  John  Russell,  had  the  delicacy  to  convey  this 
message  through  a  lady  with  whose  friendship  he  knew  us 
to  be  honored.  We  expressed  our  grateful  sense  of  his 
politeness,  and  of  the  liberality  of  the  government,  and  I 
now  beg  leave  to  do  so  once  more ;  but  his  Lordship  was 
of  course  informed  that  Sir  Walter  Scott  was  not  situated 
as  the  journalist  had  represented. 


LAST  DAYS  OF  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT.  253 

Dr.  Ferguson's  memorandum  on  Jennyn  Street  will  be 
acceptable  to  the  reader.  He  says:  — 

"When  I  saw  Sir  Walter  he  was  lying  in  the  second 
floor  back-room  of  the  St.  James's  Hotel,  in  Jermyn  Street, 
in  a  state  of  stupor,  from  which,  however,  he  could  be 
roused  for  a  moment  by  being  addressed,  and  then  he  rec- 
ognized those  about  him,  but  immediately  relapsed.  I 
think  I  never  saw  anything  more  magnificent  than  the 
symmetry  of  his  colossal  bust,  as  he  lay  on  the  pillow  with 
his  chest  and  neck  exposed.  During  the  time  he  was  in 
Jermyn  Street  he  was  calm,  but  never  collected,  and  in 
general  either  in  absolute  stupor  or  in  a  waking  dream. 
He  never  seemed  to  know  where  he  was,  but  imagined 
himself  to  be  still  in  the  steamboat.  The  rattling  of  car- 
riages, and  the  noises  of  the  street  sometimes  disturbed  this 
illusion,  and  then  he  fancied  himself  at  the  polling-booth 
of  Jedburgh,  where  he  had  been  insulted  and  stoned. 

"  During  the  whole  of  this  period  of  apparent  helpless- 
ness, the  great  features  of  his  character  could  not  be  mis- 
taken. He  always  exhibited  great  self-possession,  and 
acted  his  part  with  wonderful  power  whenever  visited, 
though  he  relapsed  the  next  moment  into  the  stupor  from 
which  strange  voices  had  roused  him.  A  gentleman  stum- 
bled over  a  chair  in  his  dark  room;  —  he  immediately 
started  up,  and  though  unconscious  that  it  was  a  friend, 
expressed  as  much  concern  and  feeling  as  if  he  had  never 
been  laboring  under  the  irritability  of  disease.  It  was  im- 
possible even  for  those  who  most  constantly  saw  and  waited 
on  him  in  his  then  deplorable  condition  to  relax  from  the 
habitual  deference  which  he  had  always  inspired.  He 
expressed  his  will  as  determinedly  as  ever,  and  enforced  it 
with  the  same  apt  and  good-natured  irony  as  he  was  wont 
to  use. 

"  At  length  his  constant  yearning  to  return  to  Abbotsford 
induced  his  physicians  to  consent  to  his  removal,  and  the 


254  JOHN   G.   LOCKHART. 

moment  this  was  notified  to  him,  it  seemed  to  infuse  ne\» 
vigor  into  his  frame.  It  was  on  a  calm,  clear  afternoon  of 
the  7th  July,  that  every  preparation  was  made  for  his 
embarkation  on  board  the  steamboat.  He  was  placed  on  a 
chair  by  his  faithful  servant,  Nicolson,  half  dressed,  and 
loosely  wrapped  in  a  quilted  dressing-gown.  He  requested 
Lockhart  and  myself  to  wheel  him  towards  the  light  of  the 
open  window,  and  we  both  remarked  the  vigorous  lustre  of 
his  eye.  He  sat  there  silently  gazing  on  space  for  more 
than  half  an  hour,  apparently  wholly  occupied  with  his  own 
thoughts,  and  having  no  distinct  perception  of  where  he 
was  or  how  he  came  there.  He  suffered  himself  to  be 
lifted  into  his  carriage,  which  was  surrounded  by  a  crowd 
among  whom  were  many  gentlemen  on  horseback,  who  had 
loitered  about  to  gaze  on  the  scene. 

"  His  children  were  deeply  affected,  and  Mrs.  Lockhart 
trembled  from  head  to  foot  and  wept  bitterly.  Thus  sur- 
rounded by  those  nearest  to  him,  he  alone  was  unconscious 
of  the  cause  or  the  depth  of  their  grief,  and  while  yet  alive 
seemed  to  be  carried  to  his  grave." 

On  this  his  last  journey,  Sir  Walter  was  attended  by  his 
two  daughters,  Mr.  Cadell,  and  myself,  and  also  by  Dr. 
James  Watson,  who  (it  being  impossible  for  Dr.  Ferguson 
to  leave  town  at  that  moment)  kindly  undertook  to  see  him 
safe  at  Abbotsford.  We  embarked  'in  the  James  Watt 
steamboat,  the  master  of  which  (Captain  John  Jamieson),  as 
well  as  the  agent  of  the  proprietors,  made  every  arrange- 
ment in  their  power  for  the  convenience  of  the  invalid. 
The  Captain  gave  up  for  Sir  Walter's  use  his  own  private 
cabin,  which  was  a  separate  erection,  a  sort  of  cottage,  on 
the  deck;  and  he  seemed  unconscious,  after  laid  in  bed 
there,  that  any  new  removal  had  occurred.  On  arriving  at 
Newhaven,  late  on  the  9th,  we  found  careful  preparations 
made  for  his  landing  by  the  manager  of  the  Shipping  Com- 
pany (Mr.  Hamilton) ;  and  Sir  Walter,  prostrate  in  his 


LAST   DAYS  OF  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT.  255 

carriage,  was  slung  on  shore,  and  conveyed  from  thence  to 
Douglas's  hotel,  in  St.  Andrew's  Square,  in  the  same  com- 
plete apparent  unconsciousness.  Mrs.  Douglas  had  in 
former  days  been  the  Duke  of  Buccleuch's  housekeeper 
at  Bowhill,  and  she  and  her  husband  had  also  made  the 
most  suitable  provision.  At  a  very  early  hour  on  the 
morning  of  Wednesday,  the  llth,  we  again  placed  him  in 
his  carriage,  and  he  lay  in  the  same  torpid  state  during  the 
first  two  stages  on  the  road  to  Tweedside.  But  as  we  de- 
scended the  vale  of  the  Gala  he  began  to  gaze  about  him, 
and  by  degrees  it  was  obvious  that  he  was  recognizing  the 
features  of  that  familiar  landscape.  Presently  he  mur- 
mured a  name  or  two,  —  Gala  Water,  surely,  —  Buck- 
holm,  —  f  orwoodlee."  As  we  rounded  the  hill  at  Ladhope, 
and  the  outline  of  the  Eildons  burst  on  him,  he  became 
greatly  excited,  and  when  turning  himself  on  the  couch  his 
eye  caught  at  length  his  own  towers,  at  the  distance  of  a 
mile,  he  sprang  up  with  a  cry  of  delight.  The  river  being 
in  flood,  we  had  to  go  round  a  few  miles  by  Melrose  bridge, 
and  during  the  time  this  occupied,  his  woods  and  house 
being  within  prospect,  it  required  occasionally  both  Dr. 
Watson's  strength  and  mine,  in  addition  to  Nicolson's,  to 
keep  him  in  the  carriage.  After  passing  the  bridge,  the 
road  for  a  couple  of  miles  loses  sight  of  Abbotsford,  and  he 
relapsed  into  his  stupor;  but  on  gaining  the  bank  imme- 
diately above  it,  his  excitement  became  again  ungovern- 
able. 

Mr.  Laidlaw  was  waiting  at  the  porch,  and  assisted  ns 
in  lifting  him  into  the  dining-room,  where  his  bed  had  been 
prepared.  He  sat  bewildered  for  a  few  moments,  and  then 
resting  his  eye  on  Laidlaw,  said,  "Ha!  Willie  Laidlaw! 
O  man,  how  often  have  I  thought  of  you ! "  By  this  time 
his  dogs  had  assembled  about  his  chair,  —  they  began  to 
fawn  upon  him  and  lick  his  hands,  and  he  alternately 
sobbed  and  smiled  over  them,  until  sleep  oppressed  him. 


256  JOHN  G.  LOCKHART. 

Dr.  Watson  having  consulted  on  all  tilings  with  Mr 
Clarkson  and  his  father,  resigned  the  patient  to  them,  and 
returned  to  London.  None  of  them  could  have  any  hope, 
but  that  of  soothing  irritation.  Recovery  was  no  longer  t« 
be  thought  of;  but  there  might  be  Euthanasia. 

And  yet  something  like  a  ray  of  hope  did  break  ir 
upon  us  next  morning.  Sir  Walter  awoke  perfectly  con 
scious  where  he  was,  and  expressed  an  ardent  wish  to  b* 
carried  out  into  his  garden.  We  procured  a  Bath-chair  from 
Huntly-Burn,  and  Laidlaw  and  I  wheeled  him  out  before 
his  door,  and  up  and  down  for"  some  time  on  the  turf,  and 
among  the  rose-beds,  then  in  full  bloom.  The  grandchfr 
dren  admired  the  new  vehicle,  and  would  be  helping  w 
their  way  to  push  it  about.  He  sat  in  silence,  smiling  pla- 
cidly on  them,  and  the  dogs  their  companions,  and  now  and 
then  admiring  the  house,  the  screen  of  the  garden,  and  the 
flowers  and  trees.  By  and  by  he  conversed  a  little,  very 
composedly,  with  us,  —  said  he  was  happy  to  be  at  home 
—  that  he  felt  better  than  he  had  ever  done  since  he  lefl 
it,  and  would  perhaps  disappoint  the  doctors  after  all. 

He  then  desired  to  be  wheeled  through  his  rooms,  and 
we  moved  him  leisurely  for  an  hour  or  more  up  and  down 
the  hall  and  the  great  library.  "I  have  seen  much,"  he 
kept  saying,  "but  nothing  like  my  ain  house,  —  give  me 
one  turn  more ! "  He  was  gentle  as  an  infant,  and  allowed 
himself  to  be  put  to  bed  again,  the  moment  we  told  him 
that  we  thought  he  had  had  enough  for  one  day. 

Next  morning  he  was  still  better;  after  again  enjoying 
the  Bath-chair  for  perhaps  a  couple  of  hours  out  of  doors, 
he  desired  to  be  drawn  into  the  library,  and  placed  by  the 
central  window,  that  he  might  look  down  upon  the  Tweed. 

Here  he  expressed  a  wish  that  I  should  read  to  him,  and 
when  I  asked  from  what  book,  he  said,  "Need  you  ask? 
There  is  but  one."  I  chose  the  14th  chapter  of  St.  John's 
Gospel;  he  listened  with  mild  devotion,  and  said  when  I 


LAST  DAYS  OF  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT  257 

had  done,  "  Well,  this  is  a  great  comfort,  —  I  have  followed 
you  distinctly,  and  I  feel  as  if  I  were  yet  to  be  myself 
again."  In  this  placid  frame  he  was  again  put  to  bed,  and 
had  many  hours  of  soft  slumber. 

On  the  third  day  Mr.  Laidlaw  and  I  again  wheeled  him 
about  the  small  piece  of  lawn  and  shrubbery  in  front  of  the 
house  for  some  time,  and  the  weather  being  delightful,  and 
all  the  richness  of  summer  around  him,  he  seemed  to  taste 
fully  the  balmy  influences  of  nature.  The  sun  getting  very 
strong,  we  halted  the  chair  in  a  shady  corner,  just  within 
the  verge  of  his  verdant  arcade  around  the  court-wall ;  and 
breathing  the  coolness  of  the  spot,  he  said,  "  Read  me  some 
amusing  thing,  —  read  me  a  bit  of  Crabbe."  I  brought  out 
the  first  volume  of  his  old  favorite  that  I  could  lay  hand  on, 
and  turned  to  what  I  remembered  as  one  of  his  most  favorite 
passages  in  it,  —  the  description  of  the  arrival  of  the  play- 
ers in  the  Borough.  Ke  listened  with  great  interest,  and 
also,  as  I  soon  perceived,  with  great  curiosity.  Every 
now  and  then  he  exclaimed,  "Capital  —  excellent — very 
good  —  Crabbe  has  lost  nothing,"  —  and  we  were  too  well 
satisfied  that  he  considered  himself  as  hearing  a  new  pro- 
duction, when,  chuckling  over  one  couplet,  he  said,  "  Better 
and  better  —  but  how  will  poor  Terry  endure  these  cuts  ?  " 
I  went  on  with  the  poet's  terrible  sarcasms  upon  the  theat- 
rical life,  and  he  listened  eagerly,  muttering,  "Honest 
Dan!"  —  "Dan  won't  like  this."  At  length  I  reached 
those  lines, 

"  Sad  happy  race  !  soon  raised  and  soon  depressed, 
Your  days  all  passed  in  jeopardy  and  jest : 
Poor  without  prudence,  with  afflictions  vain, 
Not  warned  by  misery,  nor  enriched  by  gain." 

"Shut  the  book,"  said  Sir  Walter, — "  I  can't  stand  more  of 
this,  —  it  will  touch  Terry  to  the  very  quick." 

On  the  morning  of  Sunday,  the  15th,  he  was  again  taken 
out  into  the  little  pleasaunce,  and  got  as  far  as  his  favorite 
17 


258  JOHN  G.  LOCKHART. 

terrace-walk  between  the  garden  and  the  river,  from  which 
he  seemed  to  survey  the  valley  and  the  hills  with  much 
satisfaction.  On  re-entering  the  house,  he  desired  me  to 
read  to  him  from  the  New  Testament,  and  after  that,  he 
again  called  for  a  little  of  Crabbe ;  but  whatever  I  select- 
ed from  that  poet  seemed  to  be  listened  to  as  if  it  made 
part  of  some  new  volume  published  while  he  was  in  Italy. 
He  attended  with  this  sense  of  novelty,  even  to  the  tale  of 
Phoebe  Dawson,  which,  not  many  months  before,  he  could 
have  repeated  every  line  of,  and  which  I  chose  for  one  of 
these  readings,  because,  as  is  known  to  every  one,  it  had 
formed  the  last  solace  of  Mr.  Fox's  death-bed.  On  the  con- 
trary, his  recollection  of  whatever  I  read  from  the  Bible 
appeared  to  be  lively ;  and  in  the  afternoon,  when  we  made 
his  grandson,  a  child  of  six  years,  repeat  some  of  Dr. 
Watts's  hymns  by  his  chair,  he  seemed  also  to  remember 
them  perfectly.  That  evening  he  heard  the  Church  ser- 
vice, and  when  I  was  about  to  close  the  book,  said,  "  Why 
do  you  omit  the  visitation  for  the  sick  ?  "  —  which  I  added 
accordingly. 

On  Monday  he  remained  in  bed  and  seemed  extremely 
feeble;  but  after  breakfast  on  Tuesday,  the  17th,  he  ap- 
peared revived  somewhat,  and  was  again  wheeled  about 
on  the  turf.  Presently  he  fell  asleep  in  his  chair,  and  after 
dozing  for  perhaps  half  an  hour,  started  awake,  and  shak- 
ing the  plaids  we  had  put  about  him  from  off  his  shoul- 
ders, said :  "  This  is  sad  idleness.  I  shall  forget  what  I  have 
been  thinking  of,  if  I  don't  set  it  down  now.  Take  me  into 
my  own  room,  and  fetch  the  keys  of  my  desk."  He  re- 
peated this  so  earnestly  that  we  could  not  refuse;  his 
daughters  went  into  his  study,  opened  his  writing-desk,  and 
laid  paper  and  pens  in  the  usual  order,  and  I  then  moved 
him  through  the  hall  and  into  the  spot  where  he  had  al 
ways  been  accustomed  to  work.  When  the  chair  was 
placed  at  the  desk,  and  he  found  himself  in  the  old  posi- 


LAST  DATS  OF  SIB  WALTER  SCOTT.  259 

tion,  he  Brniled  and  thanked  us,  and  said,  "  Now  give  me 
my  pen,  and  leave  me  for  a  little  to  myself."  Sophia  put 
the  pen  into  his  hand,  and  he  endeavored  to  close  his  fin- 
gers upon  it,  but  they  refused  their  office,  —  it  dropped  on 
the  paper.  He  sank  back  among  his  pillows,  silent  tears 
rolling  down  his  cheeks  ;  but  composing  himself  by  and  by, 
motioned  to  me  to  wheel  him  out  of  doors  again.  Laidlaw 
met  us  at  the  porch,  and  took  his  turn  of  the  chair.  Sir 
Walter,  after  a  little  while,  again  dropped  into  slumber. 
When  he  awakened,  Laidlaw  said  to  me,  "  Sir  Walter 
has  had  a  little  repose."  "No,  Willie,"  said  he,  "no 
repose  for  Sir  Walter  but  in  the  grave."  The  tears  again 
rushed  from  his  eyes.  "  Friends,"  said  he,  "  don't  let  me 
expose  myself —  get  me  to  bed,  —  that 's  the  only  place." 

With  this  scene  ended  our  glimpse  of  daylight  Sir 
Walter  never,  I  think,  left  his  room  afterwards,  and  hardly 
his  bed,  except  for  an  hour  or  two  in  the  middle  of  the 
day ;  and  after  another  week  he  was  unable  even  for  this. 
During  a  few  days  he  was  in  a  state  of  painful  irritation, 
—  and  I  saw  realized  all  that  he  had  himself  prefigured  in 
his  description  of  the  meeting  between  Crystal  Croftangry 
and  his  paralytic  friend.  Dr.  Ross  came  out  from  Edin- 
burgh, bringing  with  him  his  wife,  one  of  the  dearest  nieces 
of  the  Clerk's  Table.  Sir  Walter  with  some  difficulty  rec- 
ognized the  Doctor,  —  but,  on  hearing  Mrs.  Ross's  voice, 
exclaimed  at  once,  "  Is  n't  that  Kate  Hume  ?  "  These  kind 
friends  remained  for  two  or  three  days  with  us.  Clarkson's 
lancet  was  pronounced  necessary,  and  the  relief  it  afforded 
was,  I  am  happy  to  say,  very  effectual. 

After  this  he  declined  daily,  but  still  there  was  great 
strength  to  be  wasted,  and  the  process  was  long.  He 
seemed,  however,  to  suffer  no  bodily  pain,  and  his  mind, 
though  hopelessly  obscured,  appeared,  when  there  was  any 
symptom  of  consciousness,  to  be  dwelling,  with  rare  excep- 
tions, on  serious  and  solemn  things  ;  the  accent  of  the  voice 


260  JOHN  G.  LOCKHART. 

grave,  sometimes  awful,  but  never  querulous,  an!  very 
seldom  indicative  of  any  angry  or  resentful  thoughts.  Now 
and  then  he  imagined  himself  to  be  administering  justice 
as  Sheriff;  and  once  or  twice  he  seemed  to  be  ordering 
Tom  Purdie  about  trees.  A  few  times  also,  I  am  sorry  to 
say,  we  could  perceive  that  his  fancy  was  at  Jedburgh, — 
and  Burk  Sir  Walter  escaped  him  in  a  melancholy  tone. 
But  commonly  whatever  we  could  follow  him  in  was  a 
fragment  of  the  Bible  (especially  the  Prophecies  of  Isaiah 
and  the  Book  of  Job)  —  of  some  petition  in  the  litany  — 
or  a  verse  of  some  psalm  (in  the  old  Scotch  metrical  ver- 
sion) —  or  of  some  of  the  magnificent  hymns  of  the  Rom- 
ish ritual  in  which  he  had  always  delighted,  but  which 
probably  hung  on  his  memory  now  in  connection  with  the 
church  services  he  had  attended  while  in  Italy.  We  very 
often  heard  distinctly  the  cadence  of  the  Dies  Irce  ;  and  I 
think  that  the  very  last  stanza  that  we  could  make  out  was 
the  first  of  a  still  greater  favorite  :  — 
"  Stabat  Mater  dolorosa, 

Juxta  crucem  lachrymosa, 

Dam  pendebat  Filius." 

All  this  time  he  continued  to  recognize  his  daughters, 
Laidlaw,  and  myself,  whenever  we  spoke  to  him,  —  and 
received  every  attention  with  a  most  touching  thankfulness. 
Mr.  Clarkson,  too,  was  always  saluted  with  the  old  cour- 
tesy, though  the  cloud  opened  but  a  moment  for  him  to 
do  so.  Most  truly  might  it  be  said  that  the  gentleman  sur- 
vived the  genius. 

After  two  or  three  weeks  had  passed  in  this  way,  I  was 
obliged  to  leave  Sir  Walter  for  a  single  day,  and  go  into 
Edinburgh,  to  transact  business  on  his  account,  with  Mr. 
Henry  Cockburn  (now  Lord  Cockburn),  then  Solicitor- 
General  for  Scotland.  The  Scotch  Reform  Bill  threw  a 
great  burden  of  new  duties  and  responsibilities  upon  the 
Sheriffs;  and  Scott's  Sheriff-substitute,  the  Laird  of  .Rae- 


LAST  1>ATS  OF  SIB  WALTER  SCOTT.  261 

burn,  not  having  been  regularly  educated  for  the  law,  found 
himself  incompetent  to  encounter  these  novelties,  especially 
as  regarded  the  registration  of  voters,  and  other  details 
connected  with  the  recent  enlargement  of  .the  electoral 
franchise.  Under  such  circumstances,  as  no  one  but  the 
Sheriff  could  appoint  another  Substitute,  it  became  neces- 
sary for  Sir  Walter's  family  to  communicate  the  state  he 
was  in  in  a  formal  manner  to  the  Law  Officers  of  the 
Crown ;  and  the  Lord  Advocate  (Mr.  Jeffrey),  in  conse- 
quence, introduced  and  carried  through  Parliament  a  short 
bill  (2  and  3  William  IV.  cap.  101),  authorizing  the  gov- 
ernment to  appoint  a  new  Sheriff  of  Selkirkshire,  "  during 
the  incapacity  or  non-resignation  of  Sir  Walter  Scott."  It 
was  on  t^iis  bill  that  the  Solicitor- General  had  expressed  a 
wish  to  converse  with  me ;  but  there  was  little  to  be  said, 
as  the  temporary  nature  of  the  new  appointment  gave  no 
occasion  for  any  pecuniary  question ;  and,  if  that  had  been 
otherwise,  the  circumstances  of  the  case  would  have  ren- 
dered Sir  Walter's  family  entirely  indifferent  upon  such  a 
subject  There  can  be  no  doubt  that,  if  he  had  recovered 
in  so  far  as  to  be  capable  of  executing  a  resignation,  the 
government  would  have  considered  it  just  to  reward  thirty- 
two  years'  faithful  services  by  a  retired  allowance  equiva- 
lent to  his  salary,  —  and  as  little  that  the  government 
would  have  had  sincere  satisfaction  in  settling  that  matter 
in  the  shape  most  acceptable  to  himself.  And  perhaps 
(though  I  feel  that  it  is  scarcely  worth  while)  I  may  as 
well  here  express  my  regret  that  a  statement  highly  unjust 
and  injurious  should  have  found  its  way  into  the  pages  of 
some  of  Sir  Walter's  preceding  biographers.  These  writ- 
ers have  thought  fit  to  insinuate  that  there  was  a  want  of 
courtesy  and  respect  on  the  part  of  the  Lord  Advocate, 
and  the  other  official  persons  connected  with  this  arrange- 
ment. On  the  contrary,  nothing  could  be  more  handsome 
and  delicate  than  the  whole  of  their  conduct  in  it;  Mr 


262  JOHN  G.  LOCKHART. 

Cockburn  could  not  have  entered  into  the  case  with  greater 
feeling  and  tenderness,  had  it  concerned  a  brother  of  his 
own  ;  and  when  Mr.  Jeffrey  introduced  his  bill  in  the  House 
of  Commons,  he  used  language  so  graceful  and  touching, 
that  both  Sir  Robert  Peel  and  Mr.  Croker  went  across  the 
House  to  thank  him  cordially  for  it. 

Perceiving,  towards  the  close  of  August,  that  the  end  was 
near,  and  thinking  it  very  likely  that  Abbotsford  might  soon 
undergo  many  changes,  and  myself,  at  all  events,  never  see 
it  again,  I  felt  a  desire  to  have  some  image  preserved  of 
the  interior  apartments  as  occupied  by  their  founder,  and 
invited  from  Edinburgh  for  that  purpose  Sir  Walter's  dear 
friend,  William  Allan,  —  whose  presence,  I  well  knew, 
would,  even  under  the  circumstances  of  that  time,  be  nowise 
troublesome  to  any  of  the  family,  but  the  contrary  in  all 
respects.  Mr.  Allan  willingly  complied,  and  executed  a 
series  of  beautiful  drawings,  which  may  probably  be  en- 
graved hereafter.  He  also  shared  our  watchings,  and  wit- 
nessed all  but  the  last  moments.  Sir  Walter's  cousins,  the 
ladies  of  Ashestiel,  came  down  frequently,  for  a  day  or 
two  at  a  time,  and  did  whatever  sisterly  affection  could 
prompt,  both  for  the  sufferer  and  his  daughters.  Miss 
Barbara  Scott  (daughter  of  his  Uncle  Thomas)  and  Mrs. 
Scott  of  Harden  did  the  like. 

As  I  was  dressing  on  the  morning  of  Monday  the  17th 
of  September,  Nicolson  came  into  my  room,  and  told  me 
that  his  master  had  awoke  in  a  state  of  composure  and  con- 
sciousness, and  wished  to  see  me  immediately.  I  found 
him  entirely  himself,  though  in  the  last  extreme  of  feeble- 
ness. His  eye  was  clear  and  calm  —  every  trace  of  the 
wild  fire  of  delirium  extinguished.  "  Lockhart,"  he  said, 
"  I  may  have  but  a  minute  to  speak  to  you.  My  dear,  be 
a  good  man  —  be  virtuous  —  be  religious  —  be  a  good 
man.  Nothing  else  will  give  you  any  comfort  when  you 
come  to  lie  here."  He  paused,  and  I  said,  "  Shall  I  send 


LAST  DAYS  OF  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT.  263 

for  Sophia  and  Anne?"  "No,"  said  he,  "dont  disturb 
them.  Poor  souls  !  I  know  they  were  up  all  night  —  God 
bless  you  all."  With  this  he  sunk  into  a  very  tranquil 
sleep,  and,  indeed,  he  scarcely  afterwards  gave  any  sign 
of  consciousness,  except  for  an  instant  on  the  arrival  of  his 
sons.  They,  on  learning  that  the  scene  was  about  to  close, 
obtained  a  new  leave  of  absence  from  their  posts,  and  both 
reached  Abbotsford  on  the  19th.  About  half  past  one 
1*.  M.,  on  the  21st  of  September,  Sir  Walter  breathed  his 
last,  in  the  presence  of  all  his  children.  It  was  a  beautiful 
day,  —  so  warm  that  every  window  was  wide  open,  —  and 
so  perfectly  still  that  the  sound  of  all  others  most  delicious 
to  his  ear,  the  gentle  ripple  of  the  Tweed  over  its  pebbles, 
was  distinctly  audible  as  we  knelt  around  the  bed,  and  his 
eldest  son  kissed  and  closed  his  eyes. 

No  sculptor  ever  modelled  a  more  majestic  image  of 
repose. 

His  funeral  was  conducted  in  an  unostentatious  manner, 
but  the  attendance  was  very  great.  Few  of  his  old  friends 
then  in  Scotland  were  absent,  and  many,  both  friends  and 
strangers,  came .  from  a  great  distance.  His  old  domestics 
and  foresters  made  it  their  petition  that  no  hireling  hand 
might  assist  in  carrying  his  remains.  They  themselves 
bore  the  coffin  to  the  hearse,  and  from  the  hearse  to  the 
grave.  The  pall-bearers  were  his  sons,  his  son-in-law,  and 
his  little  grandson ;  his  cousins,  Charles  Scott  of  Nesbitt, 
James  Scott  of  Jedburgh,  (sons  to  his  Uncle  Thomas,)  Wil- 
liam Scott  of  Raeburn,  Robert  Rutherford,  Gerk  to  the 
Signet,  Colonel  (now  Sir  James)  Russell  of  Ashestiel,  Wil- 
liam Keith  (brother  to  Sir  Alexander  Keith  of  Ravelstone), 
and  the  chief  of  his  family,  Hugh  Scott  of  Harden,  now 
Lord  Polwarth. 

When  the  company  were  assembled,  according  to  the 
usual  Scotch  fashion,  prayers  were  offered  up  by  the  very 
Reverend  Dr.  Baird,  Principal  of  the  University  of  Edin 


264  JOHN  G.  LOCKHAKT. 

burgh,  and  by  the  Rev.  Dr.  David  Dickson,  minister  of  St 
Cuthbert's,  who  both  expatiated  in  a  very  striking  manner 
on  the  virtuous  example  of  the  deceased. 

The  court-yard  and  all  the  precincts  of  Abbotsford  were 
crowded  with  uncovered  spectators  as  the  procession  was 
arranged ;  and  as  it  advanced  through  Darnick  and  Mel- 
rose,  and  the  adjacent  villages,  the  whole  population  ap- 
peared at  their  doors  in  like  manner,  almost  all  in  black. 
The  train  of  carriages  extended,  I  understand,  over  more 
than  a  mile,  —  the  Yeomanry  followed  in  great  numbers 
on  horseback  —  and  it  was  late  in  the  day  ere  we  reached 
Dryburgh.  Some  accident,  it  was  observed,  had  caused 
the  hearse  to  halt  for  several  minutes  on  the  summit  of  the 
hill  at  Bemerside  —  exactly  where  a  prospect  of  remarka- 
ble richness  opens,  and  where  Sir  Walter  always  had  been 
accustomed  to  rein  up  his  horse.  The  day  was  dark  and 
lowering,  and  the  wind  high. 

The  wide  enclosure  at  the  abbey  of  Dryburgh  was 
thronged  with  old  and  young ;  and  when  the  coffin  was 
taken  from  the  hearse,  and  again  laid  on  the  shoulders  of 
the  afflicted  serving-men,  one  deep  sob  burst  from  a  thousand 
lips.  Mr.  Archdeacon  Williams  read  the  Burial  Service  of 
the  Church  of  England ;  and  thus,  about  half  past  five 
o'clock,  in  the  evening  of  Wednesday,  the  26th  September, 
1832,  the  remains  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  were  laid  by  the 
side  of  his  wife,  in  the  sepulchre  of  his  ancestors,  —  "in 
sure  and  certain  hope  of  the  resurrection  to  eternal  life, 
through  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ ;  who  shall  change  our  vile 
body  that  it  may  be  like  unto  his  glorious  body,  according  to 
the  mighty  working,  whereby  he  is  able  to  subdue  all  things 
to  himself"  ' 


THE  NEW  EDEN. 

(WRITTEN  FOB  A  HORTICULTURAL   FESTIVAL.) 

BY  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 


SCARCE  could  the  parting  ocean  close, 
*  Seamed  by  the  Mayflower's  cleaving  bow, 
When  o'er  the  rugged  desert  rose 

The  waves  that  tracked  the  Pilgrim's  plough 

Then  sprang  from  many  a  rock-strewn  field 
The  rippling  grass,  the  nodding  grain, 

Such  growths  as  English  meadows  yield 
To  scanty  sun  and  frequent  rain. 

But  when  the  fiery  days  were  done, 
And  Autumn  brought  his  purple  haze, 

Then,  kindling  in  the  slanted  sun, 

The  hillsides  gleamed  with  golden  maize. 

Nor  treat  his  homely  gift  with  scorn 
Whose  fading  memory  scarce  can  save 

The  hillocks  where  he  sowed  his  corn, 

The  mounds  that  mark  his  nameless  grave. 

The  food  was  scant,  the  fruits  were  few : 
A  red-streak  glistened  here  and  there ; 

Perchance  in  statelier  precincts  grew 
Some  stern  old  Puritanic  pear. 


266  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 

Austere  in  taste,  and  tough  at  core 
Its  unrelenting  bulk  was  shed, 

To  ripen  in  the  Pilgrim's  store 

When  all  the  summer  sweets  were  fled. 

Such  was  his  lot,  to  front  the  storm 
With  iron  heart  and  marble  brow, 

Nor  ripen  till  his  earthly  form 

Was  cast  from  life's  autumnal  bough. 

But  ever  on  the  bleakest  rock 

We  bid  the  brightest  beacon  glow, 

And  still  upon  the  thorniest  stock 
The  sweetest  roses  love  to  blow. 

So  on  our  rude  and  wintry  soil 
We  feed  the  kindling  flame  of  art, 

And  steal  the  tropic's  blushing  spoil 
To  bloom  on  Nature's  icy  heart. 

See  how  the  softening  Mother's  breast 
Warms  to  her  children's  patient  wiles,  — 

Her  lips  by  loving  Labor  pressed 
Break  in  a  thousand  dimpling  smiles, 

From  when  the  flushing  bud  of  June 
Dawns  with  its  first  auroral  hue, 

Till  shines  the  rounded  harvest-moon, 
And  velvet  dahlias  drink  the  dew. 

Nor  these  the  only  gifts  she  brings ; 

Look  where  the  laboring  orchard  groans, 
And  yields  its  beryl-threaded  strings 

For  chestnut  burs  and  hemlock  cones. 


THE  NEW  EDEN.  267 

Dear  though  the  shadowy  maple  be, 

And  dearer  still  the  whispering  pine, 
Dearest  yon  russet-laden  tree 

Browned  by  the  heavy  rubbing  kine  ! 

There  childhood  flung  its  venturous  stone, 

And  boyhood  tried  its  daring  climb, 
And  though  our  summer  birds  have  flown 

It  blooms  as  in  the  olden  time. 

Nor  be  the  Fleming's  pride  forgot, 

With  swinging  drops  and  drooping  bells, 

Freckled  and  splashed  with  streak  and  spot, 
On  the  warm-breasted,  sloping  swells ; 

Nor  Persia's  painted  garden-queen,  — 

Frail  Houri  of  the  trellised  wall,  — 
Her  deep-cleft  bosom  scarfed  with  green,— 

Fairest  to  see,  and  first  to  fall. 

When  man  provoked  his  mortal  doom, 

And  Eden  trembled  as  he  fell, 
When  blossoms  sighed  their  last  perfume, 

And  branches  waved  their  long  farewell. 

One  sucker  crept  beneath  the  gate, 

One  seed  was  wafted  o'er  the  wall, 
One  bough  sustained  his  trembling  weight ; 

These  left  the  garden,  —  these  were  all. 

And  far  o'er  many  a  distant  zone 

These  wrecks  of  Eden  still  are  flung ; 

The  fruits  that  Paradise  hath  known 
Are  still  in  earthly  gardens  hung. 


263  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 

Yes,  by  our  own  unstoried  stream 
The  pink-white  apple-blossoms  burst 

That  saw  the  young  Euphrates  gleam,  — 
That  Gihon's  circling  waters  nursed. 

For  us  the  ambrosial  pear  displays 
The  wealth  its  arching  branches  hold, 

Bathed  by  a  hundred  summery  days 
In  floods  of  mingling  fire  and  gold. 

And  here,  where  beauty's  cheek  of  flame 
With  morning's  earliest  beam  is  fed, 

The  sunset-painted  peach  may  claim 
To  rival  its  celestial  red. 

What  though  in  some  unmoistened  vale 
The  summer  leaf  grow  brown  and  sere, 

Say,  shall  our  star  of  promise  fail 
That  circles  half  the  rolling  sphere, 

From  beaches  salt  with  bitter  spray, 
O'er  prairies  green  with  softest  rain, 

And  ridges  bright  with  evening's  ray, 
To  rocks  that  shade  the  stormless  main  ? 

If  by  our  slender-threaded  streams 
The  blade  and  leaf  and  blossom  die, 

If,  drained  by  noontide's  parching  beams, 
The  milky  veins  of  Nature  dry, 

See,  with  her  swelling  bosom  bare, 
Yon  wild-eyed  Sister  in  the  West,  — 

The  ring  of  Empire  round  her  hair,  — 
The  Indian's  wampum  on  her  breast ! 


THE  NEW  EDEN.  269 

We  saw  the  August  sun  descend, 

Day  after  day,  with  blood-red  stain, 
And  the  blue  mountains  dimly  blend 

With  smoke-wreaths  from  the  burning  plain ; 

Beneath  the  hot  Sirocco's  wings 

We  sat  and  told  the  withering  hours, 
Till  Heaven  unsealed  its  azure  springs, 

And  bade  them  leap  in  flashing  showers. 

Yet  in  our  Ishmael's  thirst  we  knew 

The  mercy  of  the  Sovereign  hand 
Would  pour  the  fountain's  quickening  dew 

3\>  feed  some  harvest  of  the  land. 

No  flaming  swords  of  wrath  surround 

Our  second  Garden  of  the  Blest  j 
It  spreads  beyond  its  rocky  bound, 

It  climbs  Nevada's  glittering  crest. 

God  keep  the  tempter  from  its  gate ! 

God  shield  the  children,  lest  they  fall 
From  their  stern  fathers'  free  estate, 

Till  Ocean  is  its  only  wall  I 


CAMBRIDGE  WORTHIES -THIRTY  1EARS  AGO. 

BY  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 


AMBRIDGE  has  long  had  its  port,  but  the  greater 
part  of  its  maritime  trade  was,  thirty  years  ago,  in- 
trusted to  a  single  Argo,  the  sloop  Harvard,  which  belonged 
to  the  College,  and  made  annual  voyages  to  that  vague 
Orient,  known  as  Down  East,  bringing  back  the  wood  that 
in  those  days  gave  to  winter  life  at  Harvard  a  crackle  and 
a  cheerfulness,  for  the  loss  of  which  the  greater  warmth 
of  anthracite  hardly  compensates.  New  England  life,  to 
be  genuine,  must  have  in  it  some  sentiment  of  the  sea,  — 
it  was  this  instinct  that  printed  the  device  of  the  pine-tree 
on  the  old  money  and  the  old  flag,  and  these  periodic  ven- 
tures of  the  sloop  Harvard  made  the  old  Viking  fibre 
vibrate  in  the  hearts  of  all  the  village  boys.  What  a  vista 
of  mystery  and  adventure  did  her  sailing  open  to  us  ! 
With  what  pride  did  we  hail  her  return !  She  was  our 
scholiast  upon  Robinson  Crusoe  and  the  Mutiny  of  the 
Bounty.  Her  captain  still  lords  it  over  our  memories, 
the  greatest  sailor  that  ever  sailed  the  seas,  and  we  should 
not  look  at  Sir  John  Franklin  himself  with  such  admiring 
interest  as  that  with  which  we  enhaloed  some  larger  boy 
who  had  made  a  voyage  in  her,  and  had  come  back  with- 
out braces  to  his  trousers  (gallowses  we  called  them)  and 
squirting  ostentatiously  the  juice  of  that  weed  which  still 
gave  him  little  private  returns  of  something  very  like  sea« 


CAMBRIDGE  WORTHIES  —  THIRTY  YEARS  AGO.      271 

sickness.  All  our -shingle  vessels  were  shaped  and  rigged 
by  her,  who  was  our  glass  of  naval  fashion  and  our  mould 
of  aquatic  form.  We  had  a  secret  and  wild  delight  in 
believing  that  she  carried  a  gun,  and  imagined  her  sending 
grape  and  canister  among  the  treacherous  savages  of  Old- 
town.  Inspired  by  her  were  those  first  essays  at  navigation 
on  the  Winthrop  duck-pond  of  the  plucky  boy  who  was 
afterward  to  serve  two  famous  years  before  the  ma<?t 

The  greater  part  of  what  is  now  Cambridgeport  was  then 
(in  the  native  dialect)  a  hucUeberry  pastur.  Woods  were 
not  wanting  on  its  outskirts,  of  pine,  and  oak,  and  maple, 
and  the  rarer  tupelo  with  downward  limbs.  Its  veins  did 
not  draw  their  blood  from  the  quiet  old  heart  of  the  village, 
but  it  h^d  a  distinct  being  of  its  own,  and  was  rather  a 
great  caravansary  than  a  suburb.  The  chief  feature  of 
the  place  was  its  inns,  of  which  there  were  five,  with  vast 
barns  and  court-yards,  which  the  railroad  was  to  make  as 
silent  and  deserted  as  the  palaces  of  Nimroud.  Great 
white-topped  wagons,  each  drawn  by  double  files  of  six 
or  eight  horses,  with  its  dusty  bucket  swinging  from  the 
hinder  axle,  and  its  grim  bull-dog  trotting  silent  underneath, 
or  in  midsummer  panting  on  the  lofty  perch  beside  the 
driver  (how  elevated  thither  baffled  conjecture),  brought 
all  the  wares  and  products  of  the  country  to  their  mart 
and  seaport  in  Boston.  Those  filled  the  inn-yards,  or 
were  ranged  side  by  side  under  broad-roofed  sheds,  and  far 
into  the  night  the  mirth  of  their  lusty  drivers  clamored 
from  the  red-curtained  bar-room,  while  the  single  lantern 
swaying  to  and  fro  in  the  black  cavern  of  the  stables  made 
a  Rembrandt  of  the  group  of  hostlers  and  horses  below. 
There  were,  beside  the  taverns,  some  huge  square  stores 
where  groceries  were  sold,  some  houses,  by  whom  or  why 
inhabited  was  to  us  boys  a  problem,  and,  on  the  edge  of  the 
marsh,  a  currier's  shop,  where,  at  high  tide,  on  a  floating 
platform,  men  were  always  beating  skins  in  a  way  to  remind 


272  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

one  of  Don  Quixote's  fulling-mills.  ISTor  did  thes*s  make 
all  the  Port.  As  there  is  always  a  Coming  Man  who  never 
comes,  so  there  is  a  man  who  always  comes  (it  may  be 
only  a  quarter  of  an  hour)  too  early.  This  man,  as  far  as 
the  Port  is  concerned,  was  Rufus  Davenport.  Looking  at 
the  marshy  flats  of  Cambridge,  and  considering  their  near- 
ness to  Boston,  he  resolved  that  there  should  grow  up  a 
suburban  Venice.  Accordingly,  the  marshes  were  bought, 
canals  were  dug,  ample  for  the  commerce  of  both  Indies, 
and  four  or  five  rows  of  brick  houses  were  built  to  meet 
the  first  wants  of  the  wading  settlers  who  were  expected 
to  rush  in  —  WHENCE  ?  This  singular  question  had  never 
occurred  to  the  enthusiastic  projector.  There  are  laws 
which  govern  human  migrations  quite  beyond  the  control 
of  the  speculator,  as  many  a  man  with  desirable  building- 
lots  has  discovered  to  his  cost.  Why  mortal  men  will  pay 
more  for  a  chess-board  square  in  that  swamp  than  for  an 
acre  on  the  breezy  upland  close  by,  who  shall  say  ?  And 
again,  why,  having  shown  such  a  passion  for  your  swamp, 
they  are  so  coy  of  mine,  who  shall  say  ?  Not  certainly  any 
one  who,  like  Davenport,  had  got  up  too  early  for  his  gen- 
eration. If  we  could  only  carry  that  slow,  imperturbable 
old  clock  of  Opportunity,  that  never  strikes  a  second  too 
soon  or  too  late,  in  our  fobs,  and  push  the  hands  forward 
as  we  can  those  of  our  watches !  With  a  foreseeing  econ- 
omy of  space  which  now  seems  ludicrous,  the  roofs  of  this 
forlorn  hope  of  houses  were  made  flat  that  the  swarming 
population  might  have  where  to  dry  their  clothes.  But 
A.  U.  C.  30  showed  the  same  view  as  A.  U.  C.  1,  —  only 
that  the  brick  blocks  looked  as  if  they  had  been  struck  by  a 
malaria.  The  dull  weed  upholstered  the  decaying  wharves, 
and  the  only  freight  that  heaped  them  was  the  kelp  and 
eelgrass  left  by  higher  floods.  Instead  of  a  Venice,  behold 
a  Torzelo!  The  unfortunate  projector  took  to  the  last 
refuge  of  the  unhappy,  —  bookmaking,  —  and  bored  the 


CAMBRIDGE  WORTHIES  —  THIRTY  YEARS  AGO.      273 

reluctant  public  with  what  he  called  a  Rightaim  Testament, 
prefaced  by  a  recommendation  from  General  Jackson,  who 
perhaps,  from  its  title,  took  it  for  some  treatise  on  ball- 
practice. 

But  even  Cambridgeport,  my  dear  Storg,  did  not  want 
associations  poetic  and  venerable.  The  stranger  who  took 
the  "  Hourly "  at  Old  Cambridge,  if  he  were  a  physiog- 
nomist and  student  of  character  might  perhaps  have  had 
his  curiosity  excited  by  a  person  who  mounted  the  coach 
at  the  Port.  So  refined  was  his  whole  appearance,  so 
fastidiously  neat  his  apparel,  —  but  with  a  neatness  that 
seemed  less  the  result  of  care  and  plan  than  a  something 
as  proper  to  the  man  as  whiteness  to  the  lily,  —  that  you 
would  have  at  once  classed  him  with  those  individuals, 
rarer  than  great  captains  and  almost  as  rare  as  great  poets, 
whom  nature  sends  into  the  world  to  fill  the  arduous  office 
of  Gentleman.  Were  you  ever  emperor  of  that  Barataria 
which  under  your  peaceful  sceptre  would  present,  of  course, 
a  model  of  government,  this  remarkable  person  should  be 
Duke  of  Bienseance  and  Master  of  Ceremonies.  There 
are  some  men  whom  destiny  has  endowed  with  the  faculty 
of  external  neatness,  whose  clothes  are  repellant  of  dust 
and  mud,  whose  unwithering  white  neckcloths  persevere 
to  the  day's  end,  unappeasably  seeing  the  sun  go  down 
upon  their  starch,  and  whose  linen  makes  you  fancy  them 
heirs  in  the  maternal  line  to  the  instincts  of  all  the  wash- 
erwomen from  Eve  downward.  There  are  others  whose 
inward  natures  possess  this  fatal  cleanness,  incapable  of 
moral  dirt-spot.  You  are  not  long  in  discovering  that  the 
stranger  combines  in  himself  both  these  properties.  A 
nimbus  of  hair,  fine  as  an  infant's,  and  early  white,  show- 
ing refinement  of  organization  and  the  predominance  of 
the  spiritual  over  the  physical,  undulated  and  floated  around 
a  face  that  seemed  like  pale  flame,  and  over  which  the  flit- 
ting shades  of  expression  chased  each  other,  fugitive  and 
18 


274  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

gleaming  as  waves  upon  a  field  of  rye.  It  was  a  counts 
nance  that,  without  any  beauty  of  feature,  was  very  beau 
tiful.  I  have  said  that  it  looked  like  pale  flame,  aid  can 
find  no  other  words  for  the  impression  it  gave.  Here  was 
a  man  all  soul,  whose  body  seemed  only  a  lamp  of  finest 
clay,  whose  service  was  to  feed  with  magic  oils,  rare  and 
fragrant,  that  wavering  fire  which  hovered  over  it.  You, 
who  ore  an  adept  in  such  matters,  would  have  detected 
in  the  eyes  that  artist-look  which  seems  to  see  pictures  evei 
in  the  air,  and  which,  if  it  fall  on  you,  makes  you  feel  as 
if  all  the  world  were  a  gallery,  and  yourself  the  rather, 
indifferent  Portrait  of  a  Gentleman  hung  therein.  As  the 
stranger  brushes  by  you  in  alighting,  you  detect  a  single 
incongruity,  —  a  smell  of  dead  tobacco-smoke.  You  ask 
his  name,  and  the  answer  is,  Mr.  Allston. 

"  Mr.  Allston ! "  and  you  resolve  to  note  down  at  once 
in  your  diary  every  look,  every  gesture,  every  word  of  the 
great  painter  ?  Not  in  the  least.  You  have  the  true  An- 
glo-Norman indifference,  and  most  likely  never  think  of 
him  again  till  you  hear  that  one  of  his  pictures  has  sold 
for  a  great  price,  and  then  contrive  to  let  your  grand- 
children know  twice  a  week  that  you  met  him  once  in  a 
coach,  and  that  he  snid,  "  Excuse  me,  sir,"  in  a  very  Titian- 
esque  manner  when  he  stumbled  over  your  toes  in  getting 
out.  Hitherto  Boswell  is  quite  as  unique  as  Shakespeare. 
The  country-gentleman,  journeying  up  to  London,  inquires 
of  Mistress  Davenant  at  the  Oxford  inn  the  name  of  his 
pleasant  companion  of  the  night  before.  "  Master  Shake- 
speare, an  't  please  your  worship,"  and  the  Justice,  not  with- 
out a  sense  of  unbending,  says,  "  Truly,  a  merry  and 
conceited  gentleman  ! "  It  is  lucky  for  the  peace  of  great 
men  that  the  world  seldom  finds  out  contemporaneously 
who  its  great  men  are,  or,  perhaps,  that  each  man  esteems 
himself  the  fortunate  he  who  shall  draw  the  lot  of  mem- 
ory from  the  helmet  of  the  future.  Had  the  eyes  of  some 


CAMBRIDGE  WORTHIES  —  THIRTY  YEARS  AGO.      275 

Stratford  burgess  been  achromatic  telescopes  capable  of  a 
perspective  of  two  hundred  years !  But,  even  then,  would 
not  his  record  have  been  fuller  of  says-Is  than  of  says-hes  ? 
Nevertheless,  it  is  curious  to  consider  from  what  infinitely 
varied  points  of  view  we  might  form  our  estimate  of  a  great 
man's  character,  when  we  remember  that  he  had  his  points 
of  contact  with  the  butcher,  the  baker,  and  the  candle-stick- 
maker,  as  well  as  with  the  ingenious  A,  the  sublime  B, 
and  the  Right  Honorable  C.  If  it  be  true  that  no  man 
ever  clean  forgets  everything,  and  that  the  act  of  drowning 
(as  is  asserted)  forthwith  brightens  up  all  those  o'er-rusted 
impressions,  would  it  not  be  a  curious  experiment,  if,  after 
a  remarkable  person's  death,  the  public,  eager  for  minutest 
particulars,  should  gather  together  all  who  had  ever  been 
brought  into  relations  with  him,  and,  submerging  them  to 
the  hair's-breadth  hitherward  of  the  drowning-point,  subject 
them  to  strict  cross-examination  by  the  Humane  Society, 
as  soon  as  they  became  conscious  between  the  resuscitating 
blankets?  All  of  us  probably  have  brushed  against  des- 
tiny in  the  street,  have  shaken  hands  with  it,  fallen  asleep 
with  it  in  railway  carriages,  and  knocked  heads  with  it  in 
some  one  or  other  of  its  yet  unrecognized  incarnations. 

Will  it  seem  like  presenting  a  tract  to  a  colporteur,  my 
dear  Storg,  if  I  say  a  word  or  two  about  an  artist  to  you 
over  there  in  Italy  ?  Be  patient,  and  leave  your  button  in 
my  grasp  yet  a  little  longer.  A  person  whose  opinion  is 
worth  having  once  said  to  me,  that,  however  one's  opinions 
might  be  modified  by  going  to  Europe,  one  always  came 
back  with  a  higher  esteem  for  Allston.  Certainly  he  is 
thus  far  the  greatest  English  painter  of  historical  subjects. 
And  only  consider  how  strong  must  have  been  the  artistic 
bias  in  him  to  have  made  him  a  painter  at  all  under  the  cir- 
cumstances. There  were  no  traditions  of  art,  so  necessary 
for  guidance  and  inspiration.  Blackburn,  Smibert,  Copley, 
Trumbull,  Stuart,  —  it  was,  after  all,  but  a  Brentford  seep- 


276  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

tre  which  their  heirs  could  aspire  to,  and  theirs  were  not 
names  to  conjure  with,  like  those  through  which  Fame,  as 
through  a  silver  trumpet,  had  blown  for  three  centuries. 
Copley  and  Stuart  were  both  remarkable  men,  but  the  one 
painted  like  an  inspired  silk-mercer,  and  the  other  seems  to 
have  mixed  his  colors  with  the  claret  of  which  he  and  his 
generation  were  so  fond.  And  what  could  a  successful 
artist  hope  for  at  that  time  beyond  the  mere  wages  of  his 
work?  His  pictures  would  hang  in  cramped  back-parlors, 
between  deadly  cross-fires  of  lights,  sure  of  the  garret  or 
the  auction-room  erelong,  in  a  country  where  the  nomad 
population  carry  no  household  gods  with  them  but  their  five 
wits  and  their  ten  fingers.  As  a  race,  we  care  nothing 
about  Art,  but  the  Puritan  and  the  Quaker  are  the  only 
Anglo-Saxons  who  have  had  pluck  enough  to  confess  it.  If 
it  were  surprising  that  Allston  should  have  become  a  painter 
at  all,  how  almost  miraculous  that  he  should  have  been  a 
great  and  original  one.  We  call  him  original  deliberately, 
because,  though  his  school  is  essentially  Italian,  it  is  of  less 
consequence  where  a  man  buys  his  tools,  than  what  use  he 
makes  of  them.  Enough  English  artists  went  to  Italy  and 
came  back  painting  history  in  a  very  Anglo-Saxon  manner, 
and  creating  a  school  as  melodramatic  as  the  French,  with- 
out its  perfection  in  technicalities.  But  Allston  carried 
thither  a  nature  open  on  the  Southern  side,  and  brought 
it  back  so  steeped  in  rich  Italian  sunshine  that  the  east 
winds  (whether  physical  or  intellectual)  of  Boston  and  the 
dusts  of  Cambridgeport  assailed  it  in  vain.  To  that  bare 
wooden  studio  one  might  go  to  breathe  Venetian  air,  and 
better  yet,  the  very  spirit  wherein  the  elder  brothers  of  Art 
labored,  etherealized  by  metaphysical  speculation,  and  sub- 
limed by  religious  fervor.  The  beautiful  old  man !  Here 
was  genius  with  no  volcanic  explosions  (the  mechanic  result 
of  vulgar  gunpowder  often),  but  lovely  as  a  Lapland  night , 
here  was  fame,  not  sought  after  nor  worn  in  any  cheap 


CAMBRIDGE  WORTHIES  —  THIRTY  YEARS  AGO.      277 

French  fashion  as  a  ribbon  at  the  button-hole,  but  so  gentle, 
so  retiring,  that  it  seemed  no  more  than  an  assured  and  em- 
boldened modesty  ;  here  was  ambition,  undet>ased  by  rivalry 
and  incapable  of  the  downward  look ;  and  all  these  massed 
and  harmonized  together  into  a  purity  and  depth  of  charac- 
ter, into  a  tone,  which  made  the  daily  life  of  the  man  the 
greatest  masterpiece  of  the  artist. 

But  let  us  go  to  the  Old  Town.  Thirty  years  since,  the 
Muster  and  the  Cornwallis  allowed  some  vent  to  those  natu- 
ral instincts  which  Puritanism  scotched,  but  not  killed.  The 
Cornwallis  had  entered  upon  the  estates  of  the  old  Guy 
Fawkes  procession,  confiscated  by  the  Revolution.  It  was 
a  masquerade,  in  which  that  grave  and  suppressed  humor 
of  whiclj  the  Yankees  are  fuller  than  other  people,  burst 
through  all  restraints,  and  disported  itself  in  all  the  wildest 
vagaries  of  fun.  It  is  a  curious  commentary  on  the  artifi- 
ciality of  our  lives,  that  men  must  be  disguised  and  masked 
before  they  will  venture  into  the  obscurer  corners  of  their 
individuality,  and  display  the  true  features  of  their  nature. 
One  remarked  it  in  the  Carnival,  and  one  especially  noted 
it  here  among  a  race  naturally  self-restrained;  for  Silas, 
and  Ezra,  and  Jonas  were  not  only  disguised  as  Redcoats, 
Continentals,  and  Indians,  but  not  unfrequently  disguised  in 
drink  also.  It  is  a  question  whether  the  Lyceum,  where 
the  public  is  obliged  to  comprehend  all  vagrom  men,  sup- 
plies the  place  of  the  old  popular  amusements.  A  hundred 
and  fifty  years  ago,  Cotton  Mather  bewails  the  carnal  attrac- 
tions of  the  tavern  and  the  training-field,  and  tells  of  an  old 
Indian,  who  imperfectly  understood  the  English  tongue,  but 
desperately  mastered  enough  of  it  (when  under  sentence  of 
death)  to  express  a  desire  for  instant  hemp  rather  than 
listen  to  any  more  ghostly  consolations.  Puritanism  —  I 
am  perfectly  aware  how  great  a  debt  we  owe  it  —  tried  over 
again  the  old  experiment  of  driving  out  nature  with  a  pitch- 
fork, and  had  the  usual  success.  It  was  like  a  ship  inwardly 


278  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

on  fire,  whose  hatches  must  be  kept  hermetically  battened 
down,  for  the  admittance  of  an  ounce  of  heaven's  own  natu- 
ral air  would  explode  it  utterly.  Morals  can  never  be 
safely  embodied  in  the  constable.  Polished,  cultivated,  fas- 
cinating Mephistophiles !  it  is  for  the  ungovernable  break- 
ings-away  of  the  soul  from  unnatural  compressions  that  thou 
waitest  with  a  patient  smile.  Then  it  is  that  thou  offerest 
thy  gentlemanly  arm  to  unguarded  youth  for  a  pleasant 
stroll  through  the  City  of  Destruction,  and,  as  a  special 
favor,  introducest  him  to  the  bewitching  Miss  Circe,  and  to 
that  model  of  the  hospitable  old  English  gentleman,  Mr. 
Comus ! 

But  the  Muster  and  the  Cornwallis  were  not  peculiar  to 
Cambridge.  Commencement  Day  was.  Saint  Pedagogus 
was  a  worthy  whose  feast  could  be  celebrated  by  men 
who  quarrelled  with  minced-pies  and  blasphemed  custard 
through  the  nose.  The  holiday  preserved  all  the  features 
of  an  English  fair.  Stations  were  marked  out  beforehand 
by  the  town  constables,  and  distinguished  by  numbered 
stakes.  These  were  assigned  to  the  different  vendors  of 
small  wares,  and  exhibitors  of  rarities,  whose  canvas  booths, 
beginning  at  the  market-place,  sometimes  half  encircled  the 
common  with  their  jovial  embrace.  Now,  all  the  Jehoiada- 
boxes  in  town  were  foroal  to  give  up  all  their  rattling 
deposits  of  specie,  if  not  through  the  legitimate  orifice,  then 
to  the  brute  force  of  the  hammer.  For  hither  were  come 
all  the  wonders  of  the  world,  making  the  Arabian  Nights 
seem  possible,  and  which  we  beheld  for  half  price,  not  with- 
out mingled  emotions,  —  pleasure  at  the  economy,  and  shame 
at  not  paying  the  more  manly  fee.  Here  the  mummy  un- 
veiled her  withered  charms,  a  more  marvellous  Ninon,  still 
attractive  in  her  three  thousandth  year.  Here  were  the 
Siamese  Twins  —  ah,  if  all  such  enforced  and  unnatural 
unions  were  made  a  show  of!  Here  were  the  flying-horses 
(their  supernatural  effect  injured  —  like  that  of  some  po- 


CAMBRIDGE  WORTHIES  —  THIRTY  YEARS  AGO.      279 

cms  —  by  the  visibility  of  the  man  who  turned  the  crank), 
on  which,  as  we  tilted  at  the  ring,  we  felt  our  shoulders  tin- 
gle with  the  accolade,  and  heard  the  clink  of  golden  spurs 
at  our  heels.  Are  the  realities  of  life  ever  worth  half  so 
much  as  its  cheats  ?  and  are  there  any  feasts  half  so  filling 
at  the  price  as  those  Barmecide  ones  spread  for  us  by  Im- 
agination ?  Hither  came  the  Canadian  giant,  surrepti- 
tiously seen,  without  price,  as  he  alighted,  in  broad  day 
(giants  were  always  foolish),  at  the  tavern.  Hither  came 
the  great  horse  Columbus,  with  shoes  two  inches  thick,  and 
more  wisely  introduced  by  night.  In  the  trough  of  the 
town-pump  might  be  seen  the  mermaid,  its  poor  monkey's 
head  carefully  sustained  above  water  for  fear  of  drowning. 
There  were  dwarfs,  also,  who  danced  and  sang,  and  many  a 
proprietor  regretted  the  transaudient  properties  of  canvas, 
which  allowed  the  frugal  public  to  share  in  the  melody 
without  entering  the  booth.  Is  it  a  slander  of  J.  H.,  who 
reports  that  he  once  saw  a  deacon,  eminent  for  psalmody, 
lingering  near  one  of  these  vocal  tents,  and,  with  an  assumed 
air  of  abstraction,  furtively  drinking  in,  with  unhabitual  ears, 
a  song,  not  secular  merely,  but  with  a  dash  of  libertinism ! 
The  New  England  proverb  says,  "  All  deacons  are  good, 
but  —  there's  a  difference  in  deacons."  On  these  days 
Snow  became  super-terranean,  and  had  a  stand  in  the 
square,  and  Lewis  temperately  contended  with  the  stronger 
fascinations  of  egg-pop.  But  space  would  fail  me  to  make 
a  catalogue  of  everything.  No  doubt,  Wisdom  also,  as 
usual,  had  her  quiet  booth  at  the  corner  of  some  street, 
without  entrance-fee,  and,  even  at  that  rate,  got  never  a 
customer  the  whole  day  long.  For  the  bankrupt  afternoon 
there  were  peep-shows,  at  a  cent  each. 

But  all  these  shows  and  their  showers  are  as  clean  gone 
now  as  those  of  Caesar  and  Timour  and  Napoleon,  for  which 
the  world  paid  dearer.  They  are  utterly  gone  out,  not 
leaving  so  much  as  a  snuff  behind,  —  as  little  thought  of 


280  JAMES  RUSSELL   LOWELL. 

now  as  that  John  Robins,  who  was  once  so  considerable 
a  phenomenon  as  to  be  esteemed  the  last  great  Antichrist 
and  son  of  perdition  by  the  entire  sect  of  Muggletonians. 
Were  Commencement  what  it  used  to  be,  I  should  be 
tempted  to  take  a  booth  myself,  and  try  an  experiment 
recommended  by  a  satirist  of  some  merit,  whose  works 
were  long  ago  dead  and  (I  fear)  deedeed  to  boot:  — 

Menenius,  thou  who  fain  wouldst  know  how  calmly  men  can  pass 

Those  biting  portraits  of  themselves,  disguised  as  fox  or  ass, — 

Go,  borrow  coin  enough  to  buy  a  full-length  psyche-glass, 

Engage  a  rather  darkish  room  in  some  well-sought  position, 

And  let  the  town  break  out  with  bills,  so  much  per  head  admission,— 

GREAT  NATURAL  CURIOSITY  ! !     THE  BIGGEST  LIVING  POOL  ! ! ! 

Arrange  your  mirror  cleverly,  before  it  set  a  stool, 

Admit  the  public  one  by  one,  place  each  upon  the  seat, 

Draw  up  the  curtain,  let  him  look  his  fill,  and  then  retreat : 

Smith  mounts  and  takes  a  thorough  view,  then  comes  serenely  down, 

Goes  home  and  tells  his  wife  the  thing  is  curiously  like  Brown ; 

Brown  goes  and  stares,  and  tells  his  wife  the  wonder's  core  and  pith 

Is  that 't  is  just  the  counterpart  of  that  conceited  Smith  : 

Life  calls  us  all  to  such  a  show ;  Menenius,  trust  in  me, 

While  thou  to  see  thy  neighbor  smil'st,  he  does  the  same  for  thee ! " 

My  dear  Storg,  would  you  come  to  my  show,  and,  instead 
of  looking  in  my  glass,  insist  on  taking  your  money's  worth 
in  staring  at  the  exhibitor? 

Not  least  among  the  curiosities  which  the  day  brought 
together,  were  some  of  the  graduates,  posthumous  men,  as 
it  were  disentombed  from  country  parishes  and  district 
schools,  but  perennial  also,  in  whom  freshly  survived  all 
the  college  jokes,  and  who  had  no  intelligence  later  than 
their  Senior  year.  These  had  gathered  to  eat  the  college 
dinner,  and  to  get  the  Triennial  Catalogue  (their  Libro  d'oro) 
referred  to  oftener  than  any  volume  but  the  Concordance. 
Aspiring  men  they  were,  certainly,  but  in  a  right,  unworldly 
way ;  this  scholastic  festival  opening  a  peaceful  path  to  the 
ambition  which  might  else  have  devasted  mankind  with 
Prolusions  on  the  Pentateuch,  or  Genealogies  of  the  Dor- 


CAMBRIDGE  WORTHIES — THIRTY  YEARS  AGO.     281 

mouse  Family.  For,  since  in  the  Academic  processions 
the  classes  are  ranked  in  the  order  of  their  graduation,  and 
he  has  the  best  chance  at  the  dinner  who  has  the  fewest 
teeth  to  eat  it  with,  so  by  degrees  there  springs  up  a 
competition  in  longevity,  the  prize  contended  for  being  the 
oldest  surviving  graduateship.  This  is  an  office,  it  is  true, 
without  emolument,  but  having  certain  advantages,  never- 
theless. The  incumbent,  if  he  come  to  Commencement, 
is  a  prodigious  lion,  and  commonly  gets  a  paragraph  in  the 
newspapers  once  a  year  with  the  (fiftieth)  last  survivor  of 
Washington's  Life  Guard.  If  a  clergyman,  he  is  expected 
to  ask  a  blessing  and  return  thanks  at  the  dinner,  a  function 
which  he  performs  with  centenarian  longanimity,  as  if  he 
reckoned  »the  ordinary  life  of  man  to  be  fivescore  years, 
and  that  a  grace  must  be  long  to  reach  so  very  far  away 
as  heaven.  Accordingly,  this  silent  race  is  watched,  on 
the  course  of  the  catalogue,  with  an  interest  worthy  of 
Newmarket ;  and,  as  star  after  star  rises  in  that  galaxy  of 
death,*  till  one  name  is  left  alone,  an  oasis  of  life  in  the 
Stellar  desert,  it  grows  solemn.  The  natural  feeling  is 
reversed,  and  it  is  the  solitary  life  that  becomes  sad  and 
monitory,  the  Stylites,  there,  on  the  lonely  top  of  his  cen- 
tury-pillar, who  has  heard  the  passing-bell  of  youth,  love, 
friendship,  hope,  —  of  everything  but  immitigable  eld. 

Dr.  K.  was  President  of  the  University  then,  a  man  of 
genius,  but  of  genius  that  evaded  utilization,  a  great  water- 
power,  but  without  rapids,  and  flowing  with  too  smooth  and 
gentle  a  current  to  be  set  turning  wheels  and  whirling 
spindles.  His  was  not  that  restless  genius,  of  which  the 
man  seems  to  be  merely  the  representative,  and  which 
wreaks  itself  in  literature  or  politics,  but  of  that  milder 
sort,  quite  as  genuine,  and  perhaps  of  more  contempora- 
neous value,  which  is  the,  man,  permeating  a  whole  life 
with  placid  force,  and  giving  to  word,  look,  and  gesture  a 
meaning  only  justifiable  by  our  belief  in  a  reserved  power 


$82  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

of  latent  reinforcement.  The  man  of  talents  possesses 
them  like  so  many  tools,  does  his  job  with  them,  and  there 
an  end ;  but  the  man  of  genius  is  possessed  by  it,  and  it 
makes  him  into  a  book  or  a  life  according  to  its  whim. 
Talent  takes  the  existing  moulds  and  makes  its  castings, 
better  or  worse,  of  richer  or  baser  metal,  according  to  knack 
and  opportunity;  but  genius  is  always  shaping  new  ones 
and  runs  the  man  in  them,  so  that  there  is  always  that 
human  feel  in  its  results  which  gives  us  a  kindred  thrilL 
What  it  will  make  we  can  only  conjecture,  contented  always 
with  knowing  the  infinite  balance  of  possibility  against 
which  it  can  draw  at  pleasure.  Have  you  ever  seen  a 
man  whose  check  would  be  honored  for  a  million  pay  his 
toll  of  one  cent,  and  has  not  that  bit  of  copper,  no  bigger 
than  your  own  and  piled  with  it  by  the  careless  tollman, 
given  you  a  tingling  vision  of  what  golden  bridges  he  could 
pass,  into  what  Elysian  regions  of  taste  and  enjoyment  and 
culture,  barred  to  the  rest  of  us  ?  Something  like  it  is  the 
impression  made  by  such  characters  as  K.'s  on  those  who 
come  in  contact  with  them. 

There  was  that  in  the  soft  and  rounded  (I  had  almost 
said  melting)  outlines  of  his  face  which  reminded  one  of 
Chaucer.  The  head  had  a  placid  yet  dignified  droop  like 
his.  He  was  an  anachronism,  fitter  to  have  been  Abbot  of 
Fountains  or  Bishop  Golias,  courtier  and  priest,  humorist 
and  lord  spiritual,  all  in  one,  than  for  the  mastership  of  a 
provincial  college  which  combined  with  its  purely  scholastic 
functions  those  of  accountant  and  chief  of  police.  For 
keeping  books  he  was  incompetent,  (unless  it  were  those  he 
borrowed,)  and  the  only  discipline  he  exercised  was  by  the 
unobtrusive  pressure  of  a  gentlemanliness  which  rendered 
insubordination  to  him  impossible.  But  the  world  always 
judges  a  man  (and  rightly  enough,  too)  by  his  little  faults 
which  he  shows  a  hundred  times  a  day,  rather  than  by  his 
great  virtues  which  he  discloses  perhaps  but  once  in  a  life- 


CAMBRIDGE  WORTHIES  —  THIRTY  YEARS  AGO.      285 

time  and  to  a  single  person,  nay,  in  proportion  as  they  are 
rarer,  and  as  lie  is  nobler,  is  shier  of  letting  their  existence 
be  known  at  all.  He  was  one  of  those  misplaced  persons 
whose  misfortune  it  is  that  their  lives  overlap  two  distinct 
eras,  and  are  already  so  impregnated  with  one,  that  they  can 
never  be  in  healthy  sympathy  with  the  other.  Born  when 
the  New  England  clergy  were  still  an  establishment  and  an 
aristocracy,  and  when  office  was  almost  always  for  life  and 
often  hereditary,  he  lived  to  be  thrown  upon  a  time  when 
avocations  of  all  colors  might  be  shuffled  together  in  the  life 
of  one  man  like  a  pack  of  cards,  so  that  you  could  not 
prophesy  that  he  who  was  ordained  to-day  might  not  ac- 
cept a  colonelcy  of  *  filibusters  to-morrow.  Such  tempera- 
ments as  his  attach  themselves  like  barnacles  to  what  seems 
permanent,  but  presently  the  good  ship  Progress  weighs 
anchor  and  whirls  them  away  fHm  drowsy  tropic  inlets  to 
arctic  waters  of  unnatural  ice.  To  such  crustaceous  na- 
tures, created  to  cling  upon  the  immemorial  rock  amid 
softest  mosses,  comes  the  bustling  Nineteenth  Century,  and 
says,  "  Come,  come,  bestir  yourself  to  be  practical :  get  out 
of  that  old  shell  of  yours  forthwith  ! "  Alas,  to  get  out  of 
the  shell  is  to  die ! 

One  of  the  old  travellers  in  South  America  tells  of  fishes 
that  built  their  nests  in  trees  (piscium  et  summa  haesit  genus 
M//WO),  and  gives  a  print  of  the  mother  fish  upon  her  nest, 
while  her  mate  mounts  perpendicularly  to  her  without  aid 
of  legs  or  wings.  Life  shows  plenty  of  such  incongruities 
between  a  man's  place  and  his  nature,  (not  so  easily  got 
over  as  by  the  traveller's  undoubting  engraver,)  and  one 
cannot  help  fancying  that  K.  was  an  instance  in  point.  He 
never  encountered,  one  would  say,  the  attraction  proper 
to  draw  out  his  native  force.  Certainly  few  men  who 
impressed  others  so  strongly,  and  of  whom  so  many  good 
things  are  remembered,  left  less  behind  them  to  justify 
contemporary  estimates.  He  printed  nothing,  and  was. 


284  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

perhaps,  one  of  those  the  electric  sparkles  of  whose  brains, 
discharged  naturally  and  healthily  in  conversation,  refuse 
to  pass  through  the  non-conducting  medium  of  the  inkstand. 
His  ana  would  make  a  delightful  collection.  One  or  two 
of  his  official  ones  will  be  in  place  here.  Hearing  that 
Porter's  flip  (which  was  exemplary)  had  too  great  an  at- 
traction for  the  collegians,  he  resolved  to  investigate  the 
matter  himself.  Accordingly,  entering  the  old  inn  one  day, 
he  called  for  a  mug  of  it,  and,  having  drunk  it,  said,  "  And 
so,  Mr.  Porter,  the  young  gentlemen  come  to  drink  your 
flip,  do  they?" 

"  Yes  sir  —  sometimes."  ^ 

"  All,  well,  I  should  think  they  would.  Good  day,  Mr. 
Porter,"  and  departed,  saying  nothing  more,  for  he  always 
wisely  allowed  for  the  existence  of  a  certain  amount  of 
human  nature  in  ingenuous  youth.  At  another  time  the 
"  Harvard  Washington  "  asked  leave  to  go  into  Boston  to 
a  collation  which  had  been  offered  them.  "  Certainly, 
young  gentlemen,"  said  the  President,  "  but  have  you  en- 
gaged any  one  to  bring  out  your  muskets  ?  "  —  the  College 
being  responsible  for  these  weapons,  which  belonged  to  the 
State.  Again,  when  a  student  came  with  a  physician's 
certificate,  and  asked  leave  of  absence,  K.  granted  it  at 
once,  and  then  added,  "  By  the  way,  Mr. ,  persons  in- 
terested in  the  relation  which  exists  between  states  of  the 
atmosphere  and  health,  have  noticed  a  curious  fact  in  regard 
to  the  climate  of  Cambridge,  especially  within  the  College 
limits,  —  the  very  small  number  of  deaths  in  proportion  to 
the  cases  of  dangerous  illness."  This  is  told  of  Judge  W., 
himself  a  wit,  and  capable  of  enjoying  the  humorous  deli- 
cacy of  the  reproof. 

Shall  I  take  Brahmin  Alcott's  favorite  word,  and  call  him 
a  daemonic  man?  No,  the  Latin  genius  is  quite  old-fash- 
ioned enough  for  me,  means  the  same  thing,  and  its  deriva- 
tive geniality  expresses,  moreover,  the  base  of  K.'s  being. 


CAMBRIDGE  WORTHIES — THIRTY  YEARS  AGO.      285 

How  he  suggested  cloistered  repose  and  quadrangles  mossy 
with  centurial  associations!  How  easy  he  was,  and  how 
without  creak  was  every  movement  of  his  mind !  This  life 
was  good  enough  for  him,  and  the  next  not  too  good.  The 
gentlemanlike  pervaded  even  his  prayers.  His  were  not 
the  manners  of  a  man  of  the  world,  nor  of  a  man  of  the 
other  world  either,  but  both  met  in  him  to  balance  each 
other  in  a  beautiful  equilibrium.  Praying,  he  leaned  for- 
ward upon  the  pulpit-cushion  as  for  conversation,  and  seemed 
to  feel  himself  (without  irreverence)  on  terms  of  friendly  but 
courteous  familiarity  with  Heaven.  The  expression  of  his 
face  was  that  of  tranquil  contentment,  and  he  appeared  less 
to  be  supplicating  expected  mercies  than  thankful  for  those 
already  found,  as  if  he  were  saying  the  gratias  in  the  refec- 
tory of  the  Abbey  of  Theleme.  Under  him  flourished  the 
Harvard  Washington  Corps,  whose  gyrating  banner,  in- 
scribed Tarn  Marti  quam  Mercurio  (atqui  magis  IAJCBO 
should  have  been  added),  on  the  evening  of  training-days, 
was  an  accurate  dynamometer  of  Willard's  punch  or  Por- 
ter's flip.  It  was  they  who,  after  being  royally  entertained 
by  a  maiden  lady  of  the  town,  entered  in  their  orderly  book 
a  vote  that  Miss  Blank  was  a  gentleman.  I  see  them  now, 
returning  from  the  imminent  deadly  breach  of  the  law  of 
Rechab,  unable  to  form  other  than  the  serpentine  line  of 
beauty,  while  their  officers,  brotherly  rather  than  imperious, 
instead  of  reprimanding,  tearfully  embraced  the  more  eccen- 
tric wanderers  from  military  precision.  Under  him  the 
Med.  Facs.  took  their  equal  place  among  the  learned  socie- 
ties of  Europe,  numbering  among  their  grateful  honorary 
members  Alexander,  Emperor  of  all  the  Russias,  who  (if 
College  legends  may  be  trusted)  sent  them,  in  return  for 
their  diploma,  a  gift  of  medals,  confiscated  by  the  authori- 
ties. Under  him  the  College  fire-engine  was  vigilant  and 
active  in  suppressing  any  tendency  to  spontaneous  combus- 
tion among  the  Freshmen,  or  rushed  wildly  to  imaginary 


286  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

conflagrations,  generally  in  a  direction  whore  punch  was 
to  be  had.  All  these  useful  conductors  for  the  natural 
electricity  of  youth,  dispersing  it  or  turning  it  harmlessly 
into  the  earth,  are  taker  away  now,  wisely  or  not,  is  ques- 
tionable. 

An  academic  town,  in  whose  atmosphere  there  is  always 
something  antiseptic,  seems  naturally  to  draw  to  itself  cer- 
tain varieties  and  to  preserve  certain  humors  (in  the  Ben 
Jonsonian  sense)  of  character,  —  men  who  come  not  to  study 
so  much  as  to  be  studied.  At  the  head-quarters  of  Wash- 
ington once,  and  now  of  the  Muses,  lived  C ,  but  before 

the  date  of  these  recollections.  Here  for  seven  years  (as 
the  law  was  then)  he  made  his  house  his  castle,  sunning 
himself  in  his  elbow-chair  at  the  front-door,  on  that  seventh 
day,  secure  from  every  arrest  but  that  of  Death.  Here 
long  survived  him  his  turbaned  widow,  studious  only  of  Spi- 
noza, and  refusing  to  molest  the  canker-worms  that  annually 
disleaved  her  elms,  because  we  were  all  vermicular  alike. 
She  had  been  a  famous  beauty  once,  but  the  canker  years 
had  left  her  leafless  too,  and  I  used  to  wonder,  as  I  saw  her 
sitting  always  alone  at  her  accustomed  window,  whether  she 
were  ever  visited  by  the  reproachful  shade  of  him  who  (in 
spite  of  Rosalind)  died  broken-hearted  for  her  in  her  radi- 
ant youth. 

And  this  reminds  me  of  J.  F.,  who,  also  crossed  in  love, 
allowed  no  mortal  eye  to  behold  his  face  for  many  years. 
The  eremitic  instinct  is  not  peculiar  to  the  Thebais,  as  many 
a  New  England  village  can  testify,  and  it  is  worthy  of  con- 
sideration that  the  Romish  Church  has  not  forgotten  this 
among  her  other  points  of  intimate  contact  with  human 
nature.  F.  became  purely  vespertinal,  never  stirring  abroad 
till  after  dark.  He  occupied  two  rooms,  migrating  from  one 
to  the  other  as  the  necessities  of  housewifery  demanded, 
and  when  it  was  requisite  that  he  should  put  his  signature 
to  any  legal  instrument,  (for  he  was  an  anchorite  of  ample 


CAMBRIDGE  WORTHIES  —  THIRTY  YEARS  AGO.      287 

means,)  he  wrapped  himself  in  a  blanket,  allowing  nothing 
to  be  seen  but  the  hand  which  acted  as  scribe.  What  im- 
pressed us  boys  more  than  anything  was  the  rumor  that  he 
had  suffered  his  beard  to  grow,  such  an  anti-Sheffieldism 
being  almost  unheard  of  in  those  days,  and  the  peculiar 
ornament  of  man  being  associated  in  our  minds  with  noth- 
ing more  recent  than  the  patriarchs  and  apostles,  whose 
effigies  we  were  obliged  to  solace  ourselves  with  weekly  in 
the  Family  Bible.  He  came  out  of  his  oysterhood  at  last, 
and  I  knew  him  well,  a  kind-hearted  man,  who  gave  annual 
sleigh-rides  to  the  town  paupers,  and  supplied  the  poorer 
children  with  school-books.  His  favorite  topic  of  conversa- 
tion was  Eternity,  and,  like  many  other  worthy  persons,  he 
used  to  faricy  that  meaning  was  an  affair  of  aggregation,  and 
that  he  doubled  the  intensity  of  what  he  said  by  the  sole  aid 
of  the  multiplication-table.  "Eternity!"  he  used  to  say, 
"  it  is  not  a  day ;  it  is  not  a  year ;  it  is  not  a  hundred  years ; 
it  is  not  a  thousand  years ;  it  is  not  a  million  years ;  no,  sir  " 
(the  sir  being  thrown  in  to  recall  wandering  attention),  "  it 
is  not  ten  million  years  ! "  and  so  on,  his  enthusiasm  becom- 
ing a  mere  frenzy  when  he  got  among  his  sextillions,  till  I 
sometimes  wished  he  had  continued  in  retirement.  He  used 
to  sit  at  the  open  window  during  thunder-storms,  and  had  a 
Grecian  feeling  about  death  by  lightning.  In  a  certair 
sense  he  had  his  desire,  for  he  died  suddenly,  —  not  by  fire 
from  heaven,  but  by  the  red  flash  of  apoplexy,  leaving  his 
whole  estate  to  charitable  uses. 

If  K.  were  out  of  place  as  president,  that  was  not  P.  as 
Greek  professor.  Who  that  ever  saw  him  can  forget  him, 
in  his  old  age,  like  a  lusty  winter,  frosty  but  kindly,  with 
great  silver  spectacles  of  the  heroic  period,  such  as  scarce 
twelve  noses  of  these  degenerate  days  could  bear  ?  He  was 
a  natural  celibate,  not  dwelling  "  like  the  fly  in  the  heart  of 
the  apple,"  but  like  a  lonely  bee,  rather,  absconding  himself 
in  Hymettian  flowers,  incapable  of  matrimony  as  a  solitary 


288  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

palm-tree.  There  was  not  even  a  tradition  of  youthful  dis- 
appointment. I  fancy  him  arranging  his  scrupulous  toilet, 
not  for  Amaryllis  or  Neaera,  but,  like  Machiavelli,  for  the 
society  of  his  beloved  classics.  His  ears  had  needed  no 
prophylactic  wax  to  pass  the  Sirens'  isle,  nay,  he  would 
have  kept  them  the  wider  open,  studious  of  the  dialect  in 
which  they  sang,  and  perhaps  triumphantly  detecting  the 
JEolic  digamma  in  their  lay.  A  thoroughly  single  man, 
single-minded,  single-hearted,  buttoning  over  his  single  heart 
a  single-breasted  surtout,  and  wearing  always  a  hat  of  a 
single  fashion,  —  did  he  in  secret  regard  the  dual  number  of 
his  favorite  language  as  a  weakness  ?  The  son  of  an  officer 
of  distinction  in  the  Revolutionary  War,  he  mounted  the 
pulpit  with  the  erect  port  of  a  soldier,  and  carried  his  cane 
more  in  the  fashion  of  a  weapon  than  a  staff,  but  with  the 
point  lowered  in  token  of  surrender  to  the  peaceful  proprie- 
ties of  his  calling.  Yet  sometimes  the  martial  instincts 
would  burst  the  cerements  of  black  coat  and  clerical  neck- 
cloth, as  once  when  the  students  had  got  into  a  fight  upon 
the  training-field,  and  the  licentious  soldiery,  furious  with 
rum,  had  driven  them  at  point  of  bayonet  to  the  College 
gates,  and  even  threatened  to  lift  their  arms  against  the 
Muses'  bower.  Then,  like  Major  Goffe  at  Deerfield,  sud- 
denly appeared  the  gray-haired  P.,  all  his  father  resurgent 
in  him,  and  shouted,  "  Now,  my  lads,  stand  your  ground ; 
you  're  in  the  right  now !  don't  let  one  of  them  get  inside 
the  College  grounds!"  Thus  he  allowed  arms  to  get  the 
better  of  the  toga,  but  raised  it,  like  the  Prophet's  breeches, 
into  a  banner,  and  carefully  ushered  resistance  with  a  pre- 
amble of  infringed  right.  Fidelity  was  his  strong  charac- 
teristic, and  burned  equably  in  him  through  a  life  of  eighty- 
three  years.  He  drilled  himself  till  inflexible  habit  stood 
sentinel  before  all  those  postern-weaknesses  which  tempera- 
ment leaves  unbolted  to  temptation.  A  lover  of  the  schol- 
ar's herb,  yet  loving  freedom  more,  and  knowing  that  the 


CAMBRIDGE  WORTHIES — THIRTY  YEARS  AGO.     289 

animal  appetites  ever  hold  one  hand  behind  them  for  Satan 
to  drop  a  bribe  in,  he  would  never  have  two  cigars  in  his 
house  at  once,  but  walked  every  day  to  the  shop  to  fetch  his 
single  diurnal  solace.  Nor  would  he  trust  liimself  with  two 
on  Saturdays,  preferring  (since  he  could  not  violate  the  Sab- 
bath even  by  that  infinitesimal  traffic)  to  depend  on  Provi- 
dential ravens,  which  were  seldom  wanting  in  the  shape  of 
some  black-coated  friend  who  knew  his  need  and  honored 
the  scruple  that  occasioned  it.  He  was  faithful  also  to  his 
old  hats,  in  which  appeared  the  constant  service  of  the  an- 
tique world,  and  which  he  preserved  forever,  piled  like  a 
black  pagoda  under  his  dressing-table.  No  scarecrow  was 
ever  the  residuary  legatee  of  his  beavers,  though  one  of 
them  in  aify  of  the  neighboring  peach-orchards  would  have 
been  sovran  against  an  attack  of  Freshmen.  He  wore  them 
all  in  turn,  getting  through  all  in  the  course  of  the  year,  like 
the  sun  through  the  signs  of  the  Zodiac,  modulating  them 
according  to  seasons  and  celestial  phenomena,  so  that  ne\£r 
was  spider-web  or  chickweed  so  sensitive  a  weather-gauge 
as  they.  Nor  did  his  political  party  find  him  less  loyal. 
Taking  all  the  tickets,  he  would  seat  himself  apart,  and  care- 
fully compare  them  with  the  list  of  regular  nominations  as 
printed  in  his  Daily  Advertiser  before  he  dropped  his  ballot 
in  the  box.  In  less  ambitious  moments,  it  almost  seems  to 
me  that  I  would  rather  have  had  that  slow,  conscientious 
vote  of  P.'s  alone,  than  have  been  chosen  alderman  of  the 
ward! 

If  you  had  walked  to  what  was  then  Sweet  Auburn,  by 
the  pleasant  Old  Road,  on  some  June  morning  thirty  years 
ago,  you  would,  very  likely,  have  met  two  other  character- 
istic persons,  both  phantasmagoric  now  and  belonging  to  the 
Past.  Fifty  years  earlier,  the  scarlet-coated,  rapiered  fig- 
ures of  Vassall,  Oliver,  and  Brattle  creaked  up  and  down 
there  on  red-heeled  shoes,  lifting  the  ceremonious  three- 
cornered  hat  and  offering  the  fugacious  hospitalities  of  the 
19 


290  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

snuff-box.  They  are  all  shadowy  alike  now,  not  one  of 
your  Etruscan  Lucumos  or  Roman  consuls  more  so,  my 
dear  Storg.  First  is  W.,  his  queue  slender  and  tapering 
like  the  tail  of  a  violet  crab,  held  out  horizontally,  by  the 
high  collar  of  his  shepherd's-gray  overcoat,  whose  style  was 
of  the  latest  when  he  studied  at  Leyden  in  his  hot  youth. 
The  age  of  cheap  clothes  sees  no  more  of  those  faithful  old 
garments,  as  proper  to  their  wearers,  and  as  distinctive  as 
the  barks  of  trees,  and  by  long  use  interpenetrated  with 
their  very  nature.  Nor  do  we  see  so  many  humors  (still 
in  the  old  sense)  now  that  every  man's  soul  belongs  to  the 
Public,  as  when  social  distinctions  were  more  marked,  and 
men  felt  that  their  personalities  were  their  castles,  in  which 
they  could  entrench  themselves  against  the  world.  Now-a- 
days  men  are  shy  of  letting  their  true  selves  be  seen,  as  if 
in  some  former  life  they  had  committed  a  crime,  and  were 
all  the  time  afraid  of  discovery  and  arrest  in  this.  For- 
merly they  used  to  insist  on  your  giving  the  wall  to  their 
peculiarities,  and  you  may  still  find  examples  of  it  in  the 
parson  or  the  doctor  of  retired  villages.  One  of  W.'s  oddi- 
ties was  touching.  A  little  brook  used  to  run  across  the 
street,  and  the  sidewalk  was  carried  over  it  by  a  broad  stone. 
Of  course,  there  is  no  brook  now.  What  use  did  tliat  little 
glimpse  of  ripple  serve,  where  the  children  used  to  launch 
their  chip  fleets  ?  W.,  in  going  over  this  stone,  which  gave 
a  hollow  resonance  to  the  tread,  used  to  strike  upon  it  three 
times  with  his  cane,  and  mutter  Tom !  Tom !  Tom !  I  used 
to  think  he  was  only  mimicking  with  his  voice  the  sound  of 
the  blows,  and  possibly  it  was  that  sound  which  suggested 
his  thought,  —  for  he  was  remembering  a  favorite  nephew 
prematurely  dead.  Perhaps  Tom  had  sailed  his  boats 
there ;  perhaps  the  reverberation  under  the  old  man's  foot 
hinted  at  the  hollowness  of  life ;  perhaps  the  fleeting  eddies 
of  the  water  brought  to  mind  the  fugaces  annos.  W.,  like 
P.,  wore  amazing  spectacles,  fit  to  transmit  no  smaller  image 


CAMBRIDGE  WORTHIES  —  THIRTY  YEARS  AGO.     291 

than  the  page  of  mightiest  folios  of  Dioscorides  or  Hercules 
de  Saxonia,  and  rising  full-disked  upon  the  beholder  like 
those. prodigies  of  two  moons  at  once,  portending  change  to 
monarchs.  The  great  collar  disallowing  any  independent 
rotation  of  the  head,  I  remember  he  used  to  turn  his  whole 
person  in  order  to  bring  their  foci  to  bear  upon  an  object. 
One  can  fancy  that  terrified  nature  would  have  yielded  up 
her  secrets  at  once,  without  cross-examination,  at  their  first 
glare.  Through  them  he  had  gazed  fondly  into  the  great 
mare's-nest  of  Junius,  publishing  his  observations  upon  the 
eggs  found  therein  in  a  tall  octavo.  It  was  he  who  intro- 
duced vaccination  to  this  Western  World.  He  used  to  stop 
and  say  good  morning  kindly,  and  pat  the  shoulder  of  the 
blushing  school-boy  who  now,  with  the  fierce  snow-storm 
wildering  without,  sits  and  remembers  sadly  those  old  meet- 
ings and  partings  in  the  June  sunshine. 

Then  there  was  S.,  whose  resounding  "  Haw !  haw !  haw ! 
by  George ! "  positively  enlarged  the  income  of  every  dwell- 
er in  Cambridge.  In  downright,  honest  good  cheer  and 
good  neighborhood,  it  was  worth  five  hundred  a  year  to 
every  one  of  us.  Its  jovial  thunders  cleared  the  mental  air 
of  every  sulky  cloud.  Perpetual  childhood  dwelt  in  him, 
the  childhood  of  his  native  Southern  France,  and  its  fixed 
air  was  all  the  time  bubbling  up  and  sparkling  and  winking 
in  his  eyes.  It  seemed  as  if  his  placid  old  face  were  only  a 
mask  behind  which  a  merry  Cupid  had  ambushed  himself, 
peeping  out  all  the  while,  and  ready  to  drop  it  when  the 
play  grew  tiresome.  Every  word  he  uttered  seemed  to  be 
hilarious,  no  matter  what  the  occasion.  If  he  were  sick  and 
you  visited  him,  if  he  had  met  with  a  misfortune  (and  there 
are  few  men  so  wise  that  they  can  look  even  at  the  back  of 
a  retiring  sorrow  with  composure),  it  was  all  one ;  his  great 
laugh  went  off  as  if  it  were  set  like  an  alarum-clock,  to  run 
down,  whether  he  would  or  no,  at  a  certain  nick.  Even 
after  an  ordinary  good-morning!  (especially  if  to  an  old 


292  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

pupil,  arid  in  French,)  the  wonderful  Haw  !  haw  !  haw  !  by 
George !  would  burst  upon  you  unexpectedly,  like  a  salute 
of  artillery  on  some  holiday  which  you  had  forgotten.  Ev- 
erything was  a  joke  to  him,  —  that  the  oath  of  allegiance 
had  been  administered  to  him  by  your  grandfather,  —  that 
he  had  taught  Prescott  his  first  Spanish  (of  which  he  was 
proud),  —  no  matter  what.  Everything  came  to  him  marked 
by  nature  —  right  side  up,  with  care,  and  he  kept  it  so. 
The  world  to  him,  as  to  all  of  us,  was  like  a  medal,  on  the 
obverse  of  which  is  stamped  the  image  of  Joy,  and  on  the 
reverse  that  of  Care.  S.  never  took  the  foolish  pains  to 
look  at  that  other  side,  even  if  he  knew  its  existence ;  much 
less  would  it  have  occurred  to  him  to  turn  it  into  view  and 
insist  that  his  friends  should  look  at  it  with  him.  Nor  was 
this  a  mere  outside  good-humor ;  its  source  was  deeper  in  a 
true  Christian  kindliness  and  amenity.  Once  when  he  had 
been  knocked  down  by  a  tipsily-driven  sleigh,  and  was  urged 
to  prosecute  the  offenders,  —  "  No,  no,"  he  said,  his  wounds 
still  fresh,  "young  blood!  young  blood!  it  must  have  its 
way ;  I  was  young  myself."  Was  I  few  men  come  into  life 
so  young  as  S.  went  out.  He  landed  in  Boston  (then  the 
front-door  of  America)  in  '93,  and,  in  honor  of  the  cere- 
mony, had  his  head  powdered  afresh  and  put  on  a  suit  of 
court-mourning  before  he  set  foot  on  the  wharf.  My  fancy 
always  dressed  him  in  that  violet  silk,  and  his  soul  certainly 
wore  a  full  court-suit  What  was  there  ever  like  his  bow  ? 
It  was  as  if  you  had  received  a  decoration,  and  could  write 
yourself  gentleman  from  that  day  forth.  His  hat  rose,  re- 
greeting  your  own,  and  having  sailed  through  the  stately 
curve  of  the  old  regime,  sank  gently  back  over  that  placid 
brain  which  harbored  no  thought  less  white  than  the  powder 
which  covered  it.  I  have  sometimes  imagined  that  there 
was  a  graduated  arc  over  his  head,  invisible  to  other  eyes* 
than  his,  by  which  he  meted  out  to  each  his  rightful  share 
of  castorial  consideration.  I  carry  in  my  memory  three 


CAMBRIDGE  WORTHIES — THIRTY  YEARS  AGO.      293 

exemplary  bows.  The  first  is  that  of  an  old  beggar,  who 
already  carrying  in  his  hand  a  white  hat,  the  gift  of  benevo- 
lence, took  off  the  black  one  from  his  head  also,  and  pro- 
foundly saluted  me  with  both  at  once,  giving  me,  in  return 
for  my  alms,  a  dual  benediction,  puzzling  as  a  nod  from 
Janus  Bifrons.  The  second  I  received  from  an  old  Cardinal 
who  was  taking  his  walk  just  outside  the  Porta  San  Gio- 
vanni at  Rome.  I  paid  him  the  courtesy  due  to  his  age  and 
rank.  Forthwith  rose  —  first  the  Hat ;  second,  the  hat  of 
his  confessor;  third,  that  of  another  priest  who  attended 
him ;  fourth,  the  fringed  cocked-hat  of  his  coachman ;  fifth 
and  sixth,  the  ditto,  ditto,  of  his  two  footmen.  Here  was  an 
investment,  indeed ;  six  hundred  per  cent  interest  on  a  sin- 
gle bow !  The  third  bow,  worthy  to  be  noted  in  one's  alma- 
nac among  the  other  mirabilia,  was  that  of  S.  in  which 
courtesy  had  mounted  to  the  last  round  of  her  ladder,  —  and 
tried  to  draw  it  up  after  her. 

But  the  genial  veteran  is  gone  even  while  I  am  writing 
this,  and  I  will  play  Old  Mortality  no  longer.  Wandering 
among  these  recent  graves,  my  dear  friend,  we  may  chance 

to but  no,  I  will  not  end  my  sentence.'    I  bid  you 

heartily  farewell ! 


B  E  E  T  H  OVE  H. 

A  LETTER  TO  GOETHE. 

BY   BETTINA    VON    ARMM 

IT  is  Beethoven  of  whom  I  will  now  speak  to  you,  and 
with  whom  I  have  forgotten  the  world  and  you :  true, 
I  am  not  ripe  for  speaking,  but  I  am  nevertheless  not  mis- 
taken when  I  say  (what  no  one  understands  and  believes) 
that  he  far  surpasses  all  in  mind,  and  whether  we  shall 
ever  overtake  him?  —  I  doubt  it!  may  he  only  live  till 
that  mighty  and  sublime  enigma  which  lies  within  his 
spirit  be  matured  to  its  highest  perfection !  Yes,  may  he 
reach  his  highest  aim,  then  will  he  surely  leave  a  key  to 
heavenly  knowledge  in  our  hands  which  will  bring  us  one 
step  nearer  to  true  happiness. 

To  you  I  may  confess,  that  I  believe  in  a  divine  magic, 
which  is  the  element  of  mental  nature;  this  magic  does 
Beethoven  exercise  in  his  art ;  all  relating  to  it  which  he 
can  teach  you  is  pure  magic;  each  combination  is  the 
organization  of  a  higher  existence:  and  thus,  too,  does 
Beethoven  feel  himself  to  be  the  founder  of  a  new  sensual 
basis  in  spiritual  life.  You  will  understand  what  I  mean 
to  say  by  this,  and  what  is  true.  Who  could  replace  this 
spirit?  from  whom  could  we  expect  an  equivalent?  The 
whole  business  of  mankind  passes  to  and  fro  before  him 
like  clock-work ;  he  alone  produces  freely  from  out  himself 
the  unforeseen,  the  uncreated.  What  is  intercourse  with 


BEETHOVEN.  295 

the  world  to  him  who  ere  the  sunrise  is  already  at  his 
sacred  work,  and  who  after  sunset  scarcely  looks  around 
him,  —  who  forgets  to  nourish  his  body,  and  is  borne  in 
his  flight  on  the  stream  of  inspiration  far  beyond  the  shores 
of  that  e very-day  life  ?  He  says  himself:  "  When  I  open 
my  eyes,  I  cannot  but  sigh,  for  what  I  see  is  against  my 
religion,  and  I  am  compelled  to  despise  the  world,  which 
has  no  presentrment  that  music  is  a  higher  revelation  than 
all  their  wisdom  and  philosophy.  Music  is  the  wine  which 
inspires  new  creations ;  and  I  am  the  Bacchus  who  presses 
out  this  noble  wine  for  mankind,  and  makes  them  spirit- 
drunk;  and  then,  when  they  are  sober  again,  what  have 
they  not  fished  up  to  bring  with  them  to  dry  land  ?  I  have 
no  friend ;  I  must  live  with  myself  alone ;  but  I  well  know  I 
that  God  is  nearer  to  me  in  my  art  than  to  others.  I  com-  \ 
mune  with  him  without  dread ;  I  have  ever  acknowledged 
and  understood  him ;  neither  have  I  any  fear  for  my  mu- 
sic ;  it  can  meet  no  evil  fate.  He  to  whom  it  makes  itself 
intelligible  must  become  freed  from  all  the  wretchedness 
which  others  drag  about  with  them/'  All  this  did  Beetho- 
ven say  to  me  the  first  time  I  saw  him.  A  feeling  of  rev- 
ence  penetrated  me,  as,  with  such  friendly  openness,  he 
uttered  his  mind  to  me,  who  could  have  been  only  very 
unimportant  to  him.  I  was  surprised,  too,  because  I  had 
been  told  he  was  very  shy,  and  conversed  with  no  one. 

They  were  afraid  to  introduce  me  to  him,  and  I  was 
forced  to  find  him  out  alone.  He  has  three  dwellings,  in 
which  he  alternately  secretes  himself;  one  in  the  country, 
one  in  the  town,  and  the  third  upon  the  bulwarks.  Here 
I  found  him  upon  the  third  floor ;  unannounced,  I  entered, 
—  he  was  seated  at  the  piano ;  I  mentioned  my  name :  he 
was  very  friendly,  and  asked  if  I  would  hear  a  song  that  he 
had  just  composed;  then  he  sung,  shrill  and  piercing,  so 
that  the  plaintiveness  reacted  upon  the  hearer,  "Kno**'s1 
thou  the  land."  "It  's  beautiful,  is  it  not?"  said  he  ;« 


296  BETTINA  VON  ARNIM. 

spired,  "most  beautiful!  I  will  sing  it  again."  He  was 
delighted  at  my  cheerful  praise.  "  Most  men,"  said  he,  are 
touched  by  something  good,  but  they  are  no  artist-natures ; 
artists  are  ardent,  they  do  not  weep."  Then  he  sung  an- 
other of  your  songs,  to  which  he  had  a  few  days  ago  com- 
posed music,  "Dry  not  the  tears  of  eternal  love."  He 
accompanied  me  home,  and  it  was  upon  the  way  that  he 
said  so  many  beautiful  things  upon  art ;  withal  he  spoke  so 
loud,  stood  still  so  often  upon  the  street,  that  some  courage 
was  necessary  to  listen;  he  spoke  passionately  and  much 
too  startlingly  for  me  not  also  to  forget  that  we  were  in  the 
street.  They  were  much  surprised  to  see  me  enter,  with 
him,  in  a  large  company  assembled  to  dine  with  us.  After 
dinner,  he  placed  himself,  unasked,  at  the  instrument,  and 
played  long  and  wonderfully:  his  pride  and  genius  were 
both  in  ferment;  under  such  excitement  his  spirit  creates 
the  inconceivable,  and  his  fingers  perform  the  impossible. 
Since  this  he  comes  every  day,  or  I  go  to  him.  For  this 
I  neglect  parties,  picture-galleries,  theatres,  and  even  St. 
Stephen's  tower  itself.  Beethoven  says,  "  Ah !  what  should 
you  see  there  ?  I  will  fetch  you,  and  towards  evening  we 
will  go  through  the  Schonbrunn  alley."  Yesterday,  I 
walked  with  him  in  a  splendid  garden,  in  full  blossom,  all 
the  hot-houses  open  ;  the  scent  was  overpowering.  Beetho- 
ven stood  still  in  the  burning  sun,  and  said,  "  Goethe's 
poems  maintain  a  powerful  sway  over  me,  not  only  by  their 
matter,  but  also  their  rhythm ;  I  am  disposed  and  excited 
to  compose  by  this  language,  which  ever  forms  itself,  as 
through  spirits,  to  more  exalted  order,  already  carrying 
within  itself  the  mystery  of  harmonies.  Then,  from  the 
focus  of  inspiration,  I  feel  myself  compelled  to  let  the  mel- 
ody stream  forth  on  all  sides.  I  follow  it,  —  passionately 
overtake  it  again;  I  see  it  escape  me,  vanish  amidst  the 
crowd  of  varied  excitements,  —  soon  I  seize  upon  it  again 
with  renewed  passion ;  I  cannot  part  from  it,  —  with  quick 


BEETHOVEN.  297 

rapture  I  multiply  it,  in  every  form  of  modulation,  —  and 
at  the  last  moment,  I  triumph  over  the  first  musical  thought, 

—  see  now,  —  that 's  a  symphony ;  —  yes,  music  is  indeed 
the   mediator  between  the   spiritual   and  sensual   life.     I 
should   like  to  speak  with  Goethe  upon  this,  if  he  would 
understand  me.     Melody  is  the  sensual  life  of  poetry.     Do 
not  the  spiritual  contents  of  a  poem  become  sensual  feeling 
through  melody?     Do  we  not  in  Mignon's  song  perceive 
its  entire  sensual  frame  of  mind  through  melody  ?  and  does 
not  this  perception  excite  again  to  new  productions  ?    There, 
the  spirit  extends  itself  to  unbounded  universality,  where 
all  in  all  forms  itself  into  a  bed  for  the  stream  of  feelings 
which  take  their  rise  in  the  simple  musical  thought,  and 
which  else  would  die  unperceived  away ;  this  is  harmony, 
this  is  expressed  in  my  symphonies ;  the  blending  of  various 
forms  rolls  on  as  in  a  bed  to  its  goal.     Then  one  feels  that 
an  Eternal,  an  Infinite,  never  quite  to  be  embraced,  lies  in 
all   that  is  spiritual;   and  although  in  my  works   I  have 
always  a  feeling  of  success,  yet  I  have  an  eternal  hunger, 

—  that  what  seemed  exhausted  with  the  last  stroke  of  the 
drum  with  which  I  drive  my  enjoyment,  my  musical  con- 
victions, into  the  hearers,  —  to   begin   again   like  a  child. 
Speak  to  Goethe  of  me,  tell  him  he  should  hear  my  sym- 
phonies ;  he  would  then  allow  me  to  be  right  in  saying  that 
music  is  the  only  unembodied  entrance  into  a  higher  sphere 
of  knowledge  which  possesses  man,  but  he  will  never  be 
able  to  possess  it.     One  must  have  rhythm  in  the  mind  to 
comprehend  music  in  its  essential  being;  music  gives  pre- 
sentiment,  inspiration   of  heavenly   knowledge;    and   that 
which  the  spirit  feels  sensual  in  it  is  the  embodying  of  spir- 
itual knowledge.     Although  the  spirits  live  upon  music,  as 
one  lives  upon  air,  yet  it  is  something  else  spiritually  to 
understand  it ;  but  the  more  the  soul  draws  out  of  it  its  sen- 
sual nourishment,  the  more  ripe  does  the  spirit  become  foi 
a  happy  intelligence  with  it     But  few  attain  to  this ;  for, 


298  BETTINA   VON  ARNIM. 

as  thousands  engage  themselves  for  love's  sake,  and  among 
these  thousands  love  does  not  once  reveal  itself,  although 
they  all  occupy  themselves  of  love,  in  like  manner  do 
thousands  hold  communion  with  music,  and  do  not  possess 
its  revelation :  signs  of  an  elevated  moral  sense  form,  too, 
the  groundwork  of  music,  as  of  every  art.  All  genuine 
invention  is  a  moral  progress.  To  subject  one's  self  to 
music's  unsearchable  laws ;  by  virtue  of  these  laws  to  curb 
and  guide  the  spirit,  so  that  it  pours  forth  these  revelations, 
this  is  the  isolating  principle  of  art ;  to  be  dissolved  in  its 
revelations,  this  is  abandonment  to  genius,  which  tranquilly 
exercises  its  authority  over  the  delirium  of  unbridled  pow- 
ers; and  thus  grants  to  fancy  the  highest  efficacy.  Thus 
does  art  ever  represent  divinity,  and  that  which  stands  in 
human  relation  to  it  is  religion;  what  we  acquire  through 
art  is  from  God,  a  divine  suggestion,  which  sets  up  a  goal 
for  human  capacities,  which  the  spirit  attains. 

"  We  do  not  know  what  grants  us  knowledge  ;  the  firmly 
enclosed  seed  needs  the  moist,  warm,  electric  soil  to  grow, 
think,  express  itself.  Music  is  the  electric  soil  in  which  the 
spirit  lives,  thinks,  invents.  Philosophy  is  the  precipitation 
of  its  electric  spirit;  and  its  necessity,  which  will  ground 
everything  upon  a  first  principle,  is  supplied  by  music; 
and  although  the  spirit  be  not  master  of  that  which  it 
creates  through  music,  yet  is  it  blessed  in  this  creation; 
in  this  manner,  too,  is  every  creation  of  art  independent ; 
mightier  than  the  artist  himself,  and  returns  by  its  appear- 
ance back  to  the  divine ;  and  is  only  connected  with  men, 
in  so  much  as  it  bears  witness  to  the  divine  mediation 
in  him. 

"Music  gives  to  the  spirit  relation  to  harmony.  A 
thought  abstracted  has  still  the  feeling  of  communion,  of 
affinity,  in  the  spirit ;  thus  each  thought  in  music  is  in  the 
most  intimate,  inseparable  affinity  with  the  communion  of 
harmony,  which  is  unity. 


BEETHOVEN.  299 

"  The  electric  excites  the  spirit  to  musical,  fluent,  stream- 
ing production. 

"  I  am  of  electric  nature.  I  must  break  off  with  my 
unwitnessed  wisdom,  else  I  shall  miss  the  rehearsal ;  write 
to  Goethe  about  me,  if  you  understand  me;  but  I  can 
answer  nothing,  and  I  will  willingly  let  myself  be  instructed 
by  him."  I  promised  him  to  write  to  you  all,  as  well  as  I 
could  understand  it.  He  took  me  to  a  grand  rehearsal, 
with  full  orchestra,  —  there  T  sat  in  the  wide,  unlighted 
space,  in  a  box  quite  alone ;  single  gleams  stole  through 
the  crevices  and  knot-holes,  in  which  a  stream  of  bright 
sparks  were  dancing,  like  so  many  streets  of  light,  peopled 
by  happy  spirits. 

There,  then,  I  saw  this  mighty  spirit  exercise  his  rule. 
O  GoetlTe !  no  emperor  and  no  king  feels  such  entire  con- 
sciousness of  his  power,  and  that  all  pWer  proceeds  from 
him,  as  this  Beethoven,  who  just  now,  in  the  garden,  in  vain 
sought  out  the  source  from  which  he  receives  it  all ;  did  I 
understand  him  as  I  feel  him,  then  I  should  know  every- 
thing. There  he  stood  so  firmly  resolved,  —  his  gestures, 
his  countenance,  expressed  the  completion  of  his  creation ; 
he  prevented  each  error,  each  misconception ;  not  a  breath 
was  voluntary ;  all,  by  the  genial  presence  of  his  spirit,  set 
in  the  most  regulated  activity.  One  could  prophesy  that 
such  a  spirit,  in  its  later  perfection,  would  step  forth  again 
as  ruler  of  the  earth. 


A  SONG  FROM  THE  ARCADIA. 

BY  SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY. 

SINCE  Nature's  works  be  good,  and  death  doth  serve 
As  Nature's  work :  why  should  we  fear  to  die  ? 
Since  fear  is  vain  but  when  it  may  preserve  : 
Why  should  we  fear  that  which  we  cannot  fly  ? 

Fear  is  more  pain*  than  is  the  pain  it  fears, 
Disarming  human  minds  of  native  might : 
While  each  conceit  an  ugly  figure  bears, 
Which  were  not  ill,  well  viewed  in  reason's  light. 

Our  only  eyes,  which  dimmed  with  passions  be, 
And  scarce  discern  the  dawn  of  coming  day, 
Let  them  be  cleared,  and  now  begin  to  see, 
Our  life  is  but  a  step  in  dusty  way. 

Then  let  us  hold  the  bliss  of  peaceful  mind, 
Since  this  we  feel,  great  loss  we  cannot  find. 


HOUSEHOLD     FRIENDS 

FOR   EVERY  SEASON 


'The  pleasant  books,  that  silently  among 

Our  household  treasures  take  familiar  places, 
And  are  to  us  as  if  a  living  tongue 

Spake  from  the  printed  leaves  or  pictured  faces ! " 

LONGFELLOW. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

ALFRED  TENNYSON  :     The  Hesperides         ....  1 

THOMAS  HUGHES  :    The  Ashen  Fagot                     .  •      .  6 

• 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES:    Contentment          ...  47 

ANNA  THACKERAY  :    Little  Scholars                 ...  50 

A.  WEST  :    Andante 68 

SIR  THOMAS  BROWNE  :    On  Dreams        ....  69 

CHRISTINA  ROSSETTI  :    Goblin  Market         ....  74 

THEODORE  WINTHROP  :    Love  and  Skates     ...  92 

D.  G.  ROSSETTI  :    The  Blessed  Damozel    ....  162 

JEAN  PAUL:    The  Happy  Life  of  a  Parish  Priest          .  167 
THOMAS  HOOD  :    The  Song  of  the  Shirt    .        .        .        .173 

SAMUEL  SMILES  :    John  Flaxman 176 

JOHN  G.  WHITTIER:    Raphael 185 

W.  M.  THACKERAY:    Tunbridge  Toys   ....  188 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH:    To  the  Moon     ....  196 

LORD  JEFFREY  :    Character  of  Watt        ....  198 

CHARLES  LAMB  :    An  Essay  on  Roast  Pig          .        .        .  203 


iv  CONTENTS. 

D.  A.  WASSON  :    All  '*  Well 212 

CHARLES  DICKENS  :    Carlavero's  Bottle      ....  215 

MRS.  H.  B.  STOWE  :   When  I  awake,  I  am  still  with  thee  227 
JOHN  KEATS:    The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes        .        .         .        .228 

ADELAIDE  A.  PROCTER:    Links  with  Heaven        .        .  241 

HENRY  D.  THOREAU  :    Winter  Animals  in  the  Woods      .  243 

SYDNEY  DOBELL  :    Home,  Wounded        ....  253 

SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY  :    Thoughts  from  the  Arcadia    .        .  263 

LORD  BYRON  :    The  Rhine 265 

ROSE  TERRY  :    A  Woman .  267 

J.  G.  HOLLAND  :    Daniel  Gray 295 

ALEXANDER  CARLYLE  :    My  Friends 298 

SHELLEY:    Beatrice's  Song 317 

WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT:    Thanatopsis  ....  318 


THE   HESPERIDES 

BY  ALFRED  TENNYSON. 


"Hesperus  and  his  daughters  three, 
That  sing  about  the  golden  tree."  —  COMCS. 


THE  North-wind  fallen,  in  the  new-starred  night 
ZMonian  Hanno,  voyaging  beyond 
The  hoary  promontory  of  Soloe 
Past  Thymiaterion,  in  calmed  bays, 
Between  the  southern  and  the  western  Horn, 
Heard  neither  warbling  of  the  nightingale, 
Nor  melody  o'  the  Lybian  lotus-flute 
Blown  seaward  from  the  shore  ;  but  from  a  slope 
That  ran  bloom-bright  into  the  Atlantic  blue, 
Beneath  a  highland  leaning  down  a  weight 
Of  cliffs,  and  zoned  below  with  cedar-shade, 
Came  voices,  like  the  voices  in  a  dream, 
Continuous,  till  he  reached  the  outer  sea. 


SONG. 
I. 

The  golden  apple,  the  golden  apple,  the  hallowed  fruit, 
Guard  it  well,  guard  it  warily, 

*  The  Laureate  of  England  (whose  latest  portrait  fronts  our  title-page) 
has  seen  fit  to  ignore  many  of  his  earlier  productions,  some  of  which  he 
thought  well  enough  of  once.  The  one  entitled  "  Hesperides  "  is  too  gen- 

1 


2  ALFRED  TENNYSON. 

Singing  airily, 

Standing  about  the  charmed  root. 

Round  about  all  is  mute, 

As  the  snow-field  on  the  mountain-peaks, 

As  the  sand-field  at  the  mountain-foot. 

Crocodiles  in  briny  creeks 

Sleep  and  stir  not :  all  is  mute. 

If  ye  sing  not,  if  ye  make  false  measure, 

We  shall  lose  eternal  pleasure, 

Worth  eternal  want  of  rest. 

Laugh  not  loudly  :  watch  the  treasure 

Of  the  wisdom  of  the  west. 

In  a  corner  wisdom  whispers.     Five  and  three 

(Let  it  not  be  preached  abroad)  make  an  awful  mystery. 

For  the  blossom  unto  threefold  music  bloweth ; 

Evermore  it  is  born  anew  ; 

And  the  sap  to  threefold  music  floweth, 

From  the  root 

Drawn  in  the  dark, 

Up  tq  the  fruit, 

Creeping  under  the  fragrant  bark, 

Liquid  gold,  honey-sweet,  through  and  through. 

Keen-eyed  sisters,  singing  airily, 

Looking  warily 

Every  way, 

Guard  the  apple  night  and  day, 

Lest  one  from  the  east  come  and  take  it  away. 


ii. 

Father  Hesper,  Father  Hesper,  watch,  watch,  ever  and  aye, 
Looking  under  silver  hair  with  a  silver  eye. 

uine  a  poem  to  be  left  out  of  his  *'  complete  edition,"  and  we  print  it  here 
because  we  think  it  worthy  of  the  bard  of  "  Locksley  Hull"  and  "  The 
Ladv  of  Shalott." 


THE  HESPERIDES.  3 

Father,  twinkle  not  thy  steadfast  sight ; 

Kingdoms  lapse,  and  climates  change,  and  races  die ; 

Honor  comes  with  mystery  ; 

Hoarded  wisdom  brings  delight. 

Number,  tell  them  over  and  number 

How  many  the  mystic  fruit-tree  holds, 

Lest  the  red-combed  dragon  slumber 

Rolled  together  in  purple  folds. 

Look  to  him,  father,  lest  he  wink,  and  the  golden  apple  be 

stolen  away, 
For  his  ancient  heart  is  drunk  with  overwatchings  night 

and  day, 

Round  about  the  hallowed  fruit-tree  curled  : 
Sing  awa%y,  sing  aloud  evermore  in  the  wind,  without  stop, 
Lest  his  scaled  eyelid  drop, 

For  he  is  older  than  the  world. 

» 

If  he  waken,  we  waken, 

Rapidly  levelling  eager  eyes. 

If  he  sleep,  we  sleep, 

Dropping  the  eyelid  over  the  eyes. 

If  the  golden  apple  be  taken, 

The  world  will  be  overwise. 

Five  links,  a  golden  chain,  are  we, 

Hesper,  the  dragon,  and  sisters  three, 

Bound  about  the  golden  tree. 

m. 

Father  Hesper,  Father  Hesper,  watch,  watch,  night  and  day, 

Lest  the  old  wound  of  the  world  be  healed, 

The  glory  unsealed, 

The  golden  apple  stolen  away, 

And  the  ancient  secret  revealed. 

Look  from  west  to  east  along : 

Father,  old  Hirnala  weakens,  Caucasus  is  bold  aiid  strong. 


4  ALFRED   TENNYSON. 

Wandering  waters  unto  wandering  waters  call ; 

Let  them  clash  together,  foam  and  fall. 

Out  of  watchings,  out  of  wiles, 

Comes  the  bliss  of  secret  smiles. 

All  things  are  not  told  to  all. 

Half-round  the  mantling  night  is  drawn, 

Purple-fringed  with  even  and  dawn. 

Hesper  hateth  Phosphor,  evening  hateth  morn. 

IV. 

Every  flower  and  every  fruit  the  redolent  breath 

Of  this  warm  sea-wind  ripeneth, 

Arching  the  billow  in  his  sleep  ; 

But  the  land-wind  wandereth, 

Broken  by  the  highland-steep, 

Two  streams  upon  the  violet  deep : 

For  the  western  sun  and  the  western  star, 

And  the  low  west-wind,  breathing  afar, 

The  end  of  day  and  beginning  of  night, 

Make  the  apple  holy  and  bright ; 

Holy  and  bright,  round  and  full,  bright  and  blest, 

Mellowed  in  a  land  of  rest ; 

Watch  it  warily  day  and  night ; 

All  good  things  are  in  the  west. 

Till  midnoon  the  cool  east  light 

Is  shut  out  by  the  round  of  the  tall  hill-brow ; 

But  when  the  full-faced  sunset  yellowly 

Stays  on  the  flowering  arch  of  the  bough, 

The  luscious  fruitage  clustereth  mellowly, 

Golden-kernelled,  golden-cored, 

Sunset-ripened  above  on  the  tree. 

The  world  is  wasted  with  fire  and  sword, 

But  the  apple  of  gold  hangs  over  the  sea. 

Five  links,  a  golden  chain,  are  we, 


THE  HESPERIDES. 

Hesper,  the  dragon,  and  sisters  three, 

Daughters  three, 

Bound  about 

All  round  about 

The  gnarled  bole  of  the  charmed  tree. 

The  golden  apple,  the  golden  apple,  the  hallowed  fruit, 

Guard  it  well,  guard  it  warily, 

Watch  it  warily, 

Singing  airily,' 

Standing  about  the  charmed  root 


THE  ASHEN   FAGOT. 

BY  THOMAS  HUGHES, 

AUTHOR  OF  "TOM  BBOWH  AT  OXFORD,"  ETC. 

CHAPTER    I. 

AT  about  four  o'clock  on  Christmas  Eve,  a  year  or  two 
back,  two  men  trudged  briskly  up  the  little  village 
street  of  Lilburne,  in  the  county  of  Wilts.  They  were  both 
dressed  in  rough  shooting-suits,  and  one  carried  a  common 
game-bag,  and  the  other  a  knapsack.  Each  of  them  had  a 
stout  stick  in  his  hand.  The  elder,  who  might  be  six  or 
seven  and  twenty,  wore  a  strong  reddish-brown  beard.  The 
rest  of  his  rather  broad  face  was  well  tanned  by  exposure  to 
weather ;  he  had  a  clear,  merry  gray  eye,  and  an  air  of  very 
British  self-reliance  about  him.  The  younger,  in  his  twen- 
tieth year,  or  thereabouts,  wore  also  as  much  beard  as  na- 
ture had  yet  bestowed  on  him,  and  was  tanned  a  ruddy 
brown.  He  was  darker  than  his  companion,  and  his  com- 
plexion would  have  been  sallow,  but  for  the  work  of  sun 
and  air  on*  it.  There  was  the  possibility  of  great  ner- 
vous irritability  and  excitableness  in  the  look  of  him ;  but 
this  natural  tendency  of  his  constitution  and  temperament 
seemed,  at  least  for  the  present,  to  be  counteracted  by 
robust  health. 

The  two  stopped  at  the  door  of  "  The  Wagoner's  Rest," 
the  only  public  house  of  Lilburne  village. 

"  Well,  here  we  are  then,  at  the  last  stage.  How  much 
farther  do  you  say  it  is?" 


THE  ASHEN  FAGOT.  7 

"Just  six  miles." 

"  I  'ra  never  quite  at  ease  about  your  arithmetic,  Johnny. 
Hullo  here.  House !  landlord !  who 's  at  home  here  ?  "  and 
he  gave  a  thump  or  two  on  the  door-post,  which  brought 
mine  host  out  with  a  run. 

"  How  far  do  you  call  it  to  Avenly,  landlord  ?  " 

"A  matter  o'  seven  miles,  sir." 

"  There,  you  see,  Herbert,  I  was  n't  far  wrong,"  said  the 
younger. 

"  A  mile  out,  Johnny,  —  never  mind.  Now  what  do  yoi 
say  ?  shall  we  push  on  at  once,  or  stop  and  feed  ?  " 

"  What  should  you.  like  ?  " 

"  That  has  nothing  to  say  to  it.  You  're  in  command,  you 
know,  sinc#  this  morning." 

"  Well,  I  should  n't  like  to  be  there  very  early.  I  'm 
sure  you  would  feel  yourself — " 

"  Then  we  call  a  halt,"  interrupted  the  elder,  leading  the 
way  into  the  house  ;  "  this  cold  air  of  yours  has  given  me  a 
deuce  of  an  appetite.  Now,  landlord,  what  can  we  have  to 
eat,  directly  ?  Some  cold  meat,  or  whatever  you  can  give 
us  at  once.  Mind,  sharp 's  the  word !  Or,  never  mind,  no, 
you  go  and  draw  us  some  of  your  best  tap.  You  11  help  us, 
ma'am,  I  can  see,  about  the  eatables,  and  I'm  sure  we 
couldn't  be  in  better  hands." 

This  speech,  begun  in  the  street,  ended  in  the  tiny  bar  of 
"  The  Wagoner's  Rest,"  in  which  the  hostess  stood,  a  tidy, 
well-looking  woman,  in  Sunday  cap  and  ribbons,  donned  in 
honor  of  the  season,  and  of  the  rush  of  guests  whom  she 
was  expecting  as  the  day  wore  on. 

She  was  flattered  by  the  compliment  of  her  off-hand 
guest,  who  clearly  was  not  in  the  habit  of  letting  the 
grass  grow  on  his  own  heels,  or  on  those  of  any  one  else 
with  whom  he  had  to  do.  He  had  sent  her  bustling  off  in 
a  minute  or  two  to  cook  rashers  of  bacon  on  toast,  and  to 
run  round  to  the  yard  in  the  forlorn  hope  that  one  of  the 


8  THOMAS  HUGHES. 

hens  might  have  so  forgotten  herself  as  to  lay  IL  such 
weather,  in  that  cold,  dark  little  stable  of  "  The  Wag  mer's 
Rest."  Meanwhile,  he  had  taken  possession  of  the  bar, 
heaped  up  the  fire,  seated  his  companion  opposite  to  him, 
and,  by  the  time  the  landlord  arrived  with  a  jug  of  his  best 
ale,  was  as  much  at  home  as  if  he  had  been  in  the  habit  of 
taking  his  meals  there  once  a  week  for  the  last  ten  years. 

"  I  'm  afraid  you  '11  find  it  a  leetel  chilly,  gentlemen,"  said 
the  landlord,  as  he  placed  the  jug  and  glasses  on  the  table ; 
"the  cellar  ain't  altogether  as  warm  as  it  should  be." 

"  O,  never  fear !  We  shall  warm  your  ale  fast  enough, 
I've  no  doubt.  Home-brewed,  eh?" 

"  Ees,  whoam-brewed,  sir ;  I  does  the  maltin'  for  all  the 
farmers  round.  'Tis  raal  malt  and  hops,  I  assure  'ee." 

"  That 's  all  right  then.  Yes,  that  has  the  right  smack," 
he  went  on,  pouring  out  a  glass  and  taking  it  off,  "  fine  and 
bright  and  wholesome  tackle.  We  have  n't  tasted  such  ale 
this  many  a  day,  have  we,  Johnny  ?  But,  as  you  say,  a 
little  chilled ;  so  we  '11  put  it  on  the  hob  till  the  rashers 
come.  Real  old  Christmas  weather  this,  eh,  landlord  ?  " 

"Ah,  'tis,  sir." 

a  And  when  does  your  mail-cart  come  by  ?  " 

"At  eight  o'clock,  sir." 

"Well,  the  driver  will  bring  our  traps,  and  there  is  a 
carrier  from  this  to  Avenly,  is  n't  there  ?  " 

"Ees,  sir." 

"Does  he  live  here?" 

"Just  athert  the  street,  sir." 

"  Then  I  should  like  to  see  him.  You  can  send  over  for 
him  presently.  Ah,  here  come  the  rashers.  They  look 
splendid,  ma'am.  But  no  eggs !  " 

"  Well,  sir,  you  see  as  our  hens  gets  no  het  about  the 
place.  My  master  don't  kep  no  beastesses.  There 's  no 
'commodation  for  'em  here,  —  and  I  tells  'un  th'  hens  wunt 
lay  without  het." 


THE  ASHEN  FAGOT.  9 

"Never  mind,  ma'am;  the  hens  are  quite  right.  We 
shall  do  famously  with  that  splendid  loaf  and  the  cheese. 
Here,  Johnny,  hold  your  plate.  We  're  not  turning  you  out, 
ma'am  ?  Pray,  don't  go,  don't  mind  us." 

The  landlady  protested  that  they  were  quite  welcome  to 
the  bar,  and  soon  followed  her  husband,  leaving  them  alone 
to  their  meal,  to  which  they  proceeded  to  do  ample  justice. 
The  worthy  pair  were  soon  discussing  their  guests  with  one 
or  two  village  gossips,  who  had  already  arrived  in  the 
kitchen,  —  amongst  them  the  village  carrier. 

The  travellers  lost  no  time  over  their  food.  The  land- 
lady was  summoned,  complimented,  and  paid,  and  came  out 
of  her  bar  again  very  favorably  impressed  with  the  stran- 
gers. In  another  minute  they  were  in  the  kitchen  amongst 
the  circle  of  the  Lilburne  quidnuncs,  ready  for  the  road. 
The  elder  made  the  necessary  arrangement  with  the  carrier 
to  bring  on  their  luggage,  and  then,  after  shaking  hands 
with  the  courtesying  landlady,  they  sallied  out  into  the 
street,  accompanied  to  the  door  by  the  landlord  and  several 
of  the  men.  The  daylight  was  fast  slipping  away.  The 
air  was  perfectly  still  and  hushed,  but  a  dull  heavy  curtain 
of  cloud  had  settled  on  the  village,  from  which  every  now 
and  then  a  crisp  flake  or  two  of  snow  came  floating  gently 
down. . 

"  We  sha'n't  have  much  light  for  our  walk,  Johnny ;  are 
you  sure  about  the  road?" 

"I  should  think  so.  Besides,  there  is  no  turn  in  it 
except  the  one  at  the  end  of  the  village,  on  to  the  downs." 

"Very  good.  You  are  pilot.  It's  a  straight  road  to 
Avenly,  eh  ?  "  he  added,  turning  to  the  carrier. 

"  Ees ;  but 't  is  a  unked  road  to  kep  to  in  a  vail,  is  the 
downs  road,"  replied  the  carrier,  "  by  reason  as  there  ain't 
no  hedges,  and  sech  like,  to  go  by." 

"  You  think  we  're  going  to  have  a  fall,  then  ?  " 

"  It  hev  looked  like  nothin'  else  aal  day." 


10  THOMAS  HUGHES. 

"  Then  we  must  make  the  most  of  the  daylight.  The 
moon  will  be  up  in  an  hour." 

"  Ees  ;  but  her '11  kep  t'  other  side  o'  th'  fall,  zur." 

"  Small  blame  to  her.     Well,  good  night." 

A  chorus  of  "  Good  nights  "  from  the  conclave  at  the 
door  of  "The  Wagoner's  Rest"  followed  the  two  travel- 
lers, as  they  strode  away  down  the  village  street.  Before 
they  were  out  of  sight,  the  snow  began  to  fall  in  earnest 
The  villagers  stood  gaping  after  them.  Such  an  event  was 
to  them  as  good  as  a  war  telegram  to  their  kindred  circles 
in  the  neighborhood  of  St.  James's. 

"Be  'em  genTvolk,  now,  zhould  'ee  zay?"  asked  the 
blacksmith,  taking  his  pipe  from  his  mouth. 

"GenTvolk!  Wut  bist  thenkin'  ov?"  replied  the 
carrier. 

"  Wut,  dost  n't  thenk  so  ?  I  'ze  warn'd  'em  for  genT- 
volk, that  I  'ool,"  put  in  the  landlord.  "  Wut  dost  take  'em 
for,  then?" 

"  Zummat  in  th'  engineerin'  line,  or  contractor  chaps, 
med  be." 

"  Noa,  noa !  Thaay  be  too  pleasant-spoken,  and  don't 
give  no  trouble." 

"  But  wut  dost  zaay  to  them  ther5  girt  beards  ?  And  th' 
clothes  on  'em  like  zacks,  and  mwoast  as  coarse  ?  " 

The  beard  movement,  and  modern  habits  of  dress,  had 
not  yet  penetrated  to  Lilburne.  The  carrier's  last  remark 
seemed  to  puzzle  the  landlord,  more  or  less. 

"  Wut  dost  zaay,  Muster  Gabbet  ?  "  he  said,  turning  to 
one  of  the  circle,  who  had  not  yet  spoken  ;  "  be  'em  genT- 
volk, or  bean't  'em?" 

The  person  appealed  to  had  been  a  groom  in  his  youth, 
who  had  seen  "  Lunnon,"  and  other  distant  countries.  He 
kept  a  pony,  too,  on  which  he  frequented  all  neighboring 
meets  of  hounds,  and  other  sporting  gatherings,  and  was 
considered  a  great  authority  by  the  Lilburne  coterie  on  any 


THE  ASHEN  FAGOT.  11 

matter  involving  knowledge  of  life.  From  his  contact  with 
the  outer  world  the  edges  of  his  accent  had  been  rubbed  off. 
He  was  a  man  of  few  and  weighty  words. 

"  Gentlemen,  to  be  sure,"  replied  Mr.  Gabbet. 

"  I  told  'ee  zo,"  said  the  landlord,  triumphantly,  turning  to 
the  carrier. 

"  Wi'  beards  like  bottle-brushes  !  haw,  haw ! "  rejoined 
that  worthy,  by  no  means  discomfited. 

"That's  no  odds,"  replied  Mr.  Gabbet  "  Last  coursin' 
meetin'  ther'  was  half  th'  young  squires  wi'  beards." 

"  And  wi'  duds  on  'em,  like  galley-crows,  I  s'poses  !  haw, 
haw ! "  said  the  incredulous  carrier. 

"  What  dost  go  on  laaffin'  for,  thee  girt  gawney  ?  "  said  the 
landlord  ^  "  that 's  how  th'  genTvolk  do  dress  now-a-days, 
bean't  it,  Mr.  Gabbet  ?  Ther5  wur  young  Squire  Mundell 
passed  here  only  last  week,  dressed  noways  different  from 
thaay ;  only  he  'd  a  got  zhart  wide  breeches,  and  red  striped 
stockin's,  he  had,  and  mortal  queer  a  did  look." 

"They  calls  them  dresses  nick-and-nockers,"  said  Mr. 
Gabbet,  gravely. 

"  Nockers  or  no,  /  dwont  call  'em  genTvolk,"  persisted 
the  incorrigible  carrier. 

"  Thee  'st  as  cam  as  a  peg.  'T  ain't  a  mossel  o'  use  to  talk 
sense  to  th'." 

At  this  point  of  the  dialogue  the  objects  of  the  conversa- 
tion took  the  turn  towards  the  downs,  and  disappeared,  and 
Mr.  Gabbet  retired  suddenly  into  the  house.  He  was  lol- 
lowed  at  once  by  the  rest,  and  the  knotty  question  was 
adjourned  to  the  chimney-corner,  where  it  furnished  talk 
for  the  rest  of  the  evening,  and  caused  the  consumption  of 
several  extra  mugs  of  beer. 


12  THOMAS  HUGHES. 


CHAPTER    II. 

THE  little  hamlet  of  Avenly  is  dropped,  as  it  were,  in  a 
dip  of  the  downs,  many  miles  from  anything  approaching  to 
a  town.  It  consists  of  a  miniature  church,  and  neat  parson- 
age-house and  garden ;  the  manor-house  and  curtilage, 
which  we  must  look  at  more  closely  presently ;  one  public 
house ;  two  or  three  general  shops  in  a  very  small  way,  one 
of  which  is  the  post-office ;  and  a  dozen  or  two  thatched 
cottages.  These  are  scattered  prettily  enough  by  the  side 
of  the  road  from  Lilburne  to  Devizes,  or  of  the  little  clear 
brook,  which  runs  parallel  to  the  road  through  the  hamlet, 
between  the  church  and  the  manor-house. 

There  are  three  or  four  clumps  of  fine  ashes  and  elms  in 
or  near  the  hamlet,  of  which  the  biggest  is  the  rookery  at 
the  end  of  the  manor-garden.  There  is  also  timber  in  the 
fences  of  the  few  enclosures,  one  of  which  enclosures  is  a 
fine  orchard,  and  there  are  fruit-trees  in  most  of  the  cottage- 
gardens.  Where  the  hamlet  stands,  the  dip  is  not  half  a 
mile  across;  it  is  narrower  yet  above,  and  widens  below. 
The  downs  encircle  the  place  on  all  sides.  Except  within 
the  enclosures,  not  a  tree  is  to  be  seen ;  and  the  contrast  is 
what  gives  its  peculiar  charm  to  the  little  out-of-the-way 
place,  as  it  lies  there  in  the  lap  of  the  great  brown  bare 
downs,  rejoicing  in  its  own  shade  and  verdure.  The  first 
glance  from  the  brow  above,  as  you  come  upon  it  either 
from  the  Lilburne  or  Devizes  side,  shows  you  at  once  the 
character  of  the  place.  It  has  the  special  characteristics  of 
the  old  manor, —  the  big  house  in  the  middle,  the  little  copy- 
hold tenements  clustering  about  it,  and  around  a  sea  of  com- 
mon lands  ;  not  that  the  lands  are  copyhold,  but  the  manor- 
house  is  so  completely  the  centre  of  the  little  community, 
that  one  could  easily  fancy  the  little  people  about  holding 
their  allotments  still  by  suit  and  service,  —  as  indeed  they 


THE  ASHEN  FAGOT.  13 

do  j  for  almost  all  of  them  are  employed  by  the  owner  of 
the  manor-house. 

The  manor-house  itself  is  one  in  which  the  first  impres- 
sion you  get  on  entering,  and  the  last  which  remains  with 
you  after  you  leave,  will  most  likely  be  that  here,  if  any- 
where in  the  world,  there  is  no  lack  of  anything. 

There  is  no  lack  of  room.  The  house  is  a  great,  old- 
fashioned,  rambling  brick  and  flint  building,  with  more 
rooms  than  anybody  can  possibly  want  who  is  ever  likely 
to  live  there,  and  not  the  sort  of  little  useless  rooms  which 
one  often  sees  in  country  houses,  but  good,  large  twenty- 
foot-by-fifteen  places,  where  a  dozen  children  might  romp 
on  a  wet  day.  The  outhouses,  wlu'ch  have  been  built  up  by 
successive  generations  of  wealthy  tillers  of  the  soil,  each  of 
whom  has  had  some  special  fancy  in  the  matter  of  stables, 
brew-houses,  granaries,  or  barns,  are  various,  solid,  and 
quaint.  They  surround  a  yard  which  covers  half  an  acre 
of  ground,  paved  with  flint  round  two  of  the  sides  to  a 
breadth  of  some  twelve  feet,  but  otherwise  soft-bottomed  and 
full  of  straw,  in  which  fat  heifers  stand  over  their  hocks, 
and  munch  out  of  the  racks  which  are  set  up  at  several 
points  and  constantly  replenished,  and  saucy  calves  disport 
themselves,  and  bully  the  younger  generations  of  small- 
limbed,  fat-sided  black  pigs,  their  fellow-occupants.  There 
is  animal  life  of  all  kinds,  representatives  of  every  species 
of  domestic  beast  or  fowl  which  can  be  used  either  for  profit 
or  pleasure.  There  is  no  lack  of  dead  stock,  —  dozens  of 
hay-ricks  and  corn-stacks  thatched  mounds  full  of  mangold- 
wurzel  and  turnips  and  potatoes,  besides  well-stored  barns 
and  granaries ;  a  dozen  ploughs,  eight  or  ten  wagons,  carts, 
a  light  carriage  or  two,  and  a  steam-engine. 

And,  lastly,  there  is  no  lack  of  human  stock  to  crown  the 
whole ;  jolter-headed  plough-boys  and  carter-boys,  and  farm- 
servants  and  house-servants,  and  ".  the  family,"  with  whom 
we  are  chiefly  concerned.  The  head  of  these,  and  feudal 


14  THOMAS  HUGHES. 

king  and  lord  paramount  of , the  little  hamlet  of  Avenly,  is 
Farmer  John  Kendrick,  as  he  would  call  himself,  —  Squire 
Kendrick,  as  the  peasantry  all  around  call  liirn.  He  is  the 
fourth  or  fifth  in  descent  of  his  family,  who  have  owned  a 
considerable  tract  of  land  in  the  dip  of  the  downs  in  which 
Avenly  lies ;  and,  besides  his  own  land,  he  farms  a  great 
tract  of  the  downs  on  lease.  In  fact,  he  pays  more  than 
four  fifths  of  the  tithes  and  rates  of  the  parish  himself,  and 
employs  all  but  some  dozen  or  so  of  the  whole  male  popu- 
lation. He  is,  at  the  time  of  our  story,  a  hale  man  of  about 
forty- three,  a  good  sportsman,  and  an  energetic  and  success- 
ful fanner,  reasonably  well  educated,  and  open-minded,  of 
good  plain  manners,  without  mucli  polish.  He  has  no  near 
neighbors,  except  his  parson,  and  no  spare  time  to  go  far 
a-field  for  society ;  so  that  he  sees  little  of  it.  A  just  and  a 
kind  man,  but  hot-tempered  and  somewhat  arbitrary,  from 
having  had  his  own  way  since  he  was  a  boy  of  nineteen, 
when  his  father  died.  He  married  early  the  daughter  of  a 
clergyman's  widow,  a  lady  of  education  and  refinement, 
whom,  nevertheless,  he  had  managed  to  make  very  happy, 
and  who  had  borne  him  a  large  family. 

On  the  morning  of  the  Christmas  Eve  with  which  we  are 
concerned,  Mrs.  Kendrick  is  making  tea  in  the  south  parlor 
of  the  manor,  at  a  long  table,  wrhile  her  eldest  daughter 
Mabel,  a  girl  of  eighteen,  is  cutting  large  plates  of  bread- 
and-butter,  and  filling  mugs  with  new  milk  for  the  younger 
branches.  Presently  the  bell  rings  for  prayers,  and  the  gov- 
erness with  her  convoy  arrive  at  one  door,  while  two  school- 
boys of  fifteen  and  fourteen,  and  a  small  boy  of  nine  — 
proud  of  having  been  out  with  his  big  brothers  —  come  in 
with  rosy  cheeks  from  the  hall. 

"  You  can  call  the  servants  in,  Willie,"  said  Mrs.  Ken- 
drick to  the  eldest  boy,  as  soon  as  she  had  returned  all  their 
salutes ;  "  we  are  not  to  wait  for  papa." 

After  prayers,  the  serious  business  of  breakfast  began, 
amidst  a  Babel  of  talk  from  the  boys. 


THE  ASHEN  FAGOT.  lo 

"  Have  n't  we  had  a  jolly  morning,  mamma  ?  Parker's 
pond  is  frozen  over  splendidly,  and  we  Ve  been  sliding  ever 
since  it  was  light." 

"  And  I  can  do  butter-and-eggs  all  down  the  long  slide, 
which  the  carter-boys  have  made,  can't  I,  Willie  ?  "  (The 
feat  of  butter-and-eggs,  be  it  known  to  those  readers  who 
are  not  up  to  the  higher  mysteries  of  sliding,  consists  in 
going  down  the  slide  on  one  foot,  and  beating  with  the  heel 
and  toe  of  the  other  at  short  intervals.) 

"  Yes,  and  Bobby  is  getting  on  famously,  and  goes  at  the 
elide  like  a  little  dragon,"  said  Willie.  Bobby,  the  small 
boy  of  nine,  looked  up  proudly  at  his  mother,  with  his 
mouth  too  full  of  bread-and-butter  to  be  able  to  take  his  own 
part  \xy  speech  at  the  moment. 

"  Bobby  has  n't  learnt  a  word  of  his  lessons  though,"  said 
a  staid  little  girl  of  twelve,  looking  up  from  her  milk ;  "  and 
Miss  Smith  says  he  '11  have  to  stay  in  after  breakfast  to  do 
them." 

"That's  just  like  you  now,  Clara,"  retorted  Dick,  the 
butter-and-eggg  boy;  "why  can't  you  mind  your  own  les- 
sons, and  let  Bobby  alone  ?  " 

"  But,  Bobby,  how  did  you  get  out  so  early  ?  "  asked  Mrs. 
Kendrick. 

"O,  Willie  came  in  and  told  me  I  might  get  up  and 
come  with  them." 

"  Yes,  mamma,  and  I  'm  sure  it  will  do  him  good  to  be 
out  with  us,  instead  of  being  with  the  girls.  He  need  n't  do 
lessons,  need  he,  just  at  Christmas  time  ?  " 

"  Well,  dear,  Bobby  shall  have  a  holiday,  and  may  go 
with  you.  But  you  must  take  care  of  him,  for  he  's  only  a 
little  fellow,  remember." 

"  O,  yes,  that  we  will." 

"  May  n't  I  have  some  cold  beef,  mamma  ?  "  broke  in  Dick, 
and,  permission  being  given,  he  and  Willie  helped  them- 
selves at  the  sideboard,  and  kept  the  conversation  alive 


16  THOMAS  HUGHES. 

with  accounts  of  the  game  of  hockey  they  were  going  to 
have  with  the  carter-boys,  who  were  to  break  off  work  at 
twelve,  and  the  rat-catching  which  was  to  come  off  in  the 
big  barn  in  the  afternoon. 

"  And  to-ni<rht  is  Ashen  Fagot  night,  is  n't  it,  mamma  ? 
and  you  '11  let  us  all  go,  and  you  and  papa  will  come  ?  You 
did  n't  go  in  last  year ;  and  I  heard  Joe,  the  head  carter,  say 
it  was  n't  like  Ashen  Fagot  if  master  and  mistress  did  n't 
come  in." 

A  shade  passed  over  Mrs.  Kendrick's  face,  but  she  said 
quietly,  "  Perhaps  your  papa  will  look  in,  dear ;  and,  at  any 
rate,  you  can  all  go  for  an  hour  or  two." 

"And  O,  mamma,  shall  we  see  the  mummers  ?"  asked  a 
little  bright-eyed  girl  of  eight. 

"  Most  likely,  Maggy.     They  are  sure  to  come,  I  think." 

"  But  where 's  papa  ?  Why  does  n't  he  come  to  break- 
fast?" 

"  He  has  ridden  out.  He  will  come  down  and  see  you 
sliding  after  breakfast,  I  'm  sure." 

"  Do  you  think  I  might  take  his  skates?  Dick  wants  to 
begin,  and  I  could  lend  him  mine  if  I  may  have  papa's." 

"  Yes,  certainly,  dear.  I  'm  sure  papa  would  wish  you  to 
have  them." 

"  But,  Willie,"  interrupted  Dick,  "  there  's  that  pair  of 
smaller  ones,  hanging  up  by  papa's  ;  they  would  fit  you 
better,  you  know.  What's  the  matter?  Why  do  you 
kick  me  under  the  table  ? " 

Willie  answered  by  a  frown  at  his  brother,  and  then 
glanced  up  hastily  at  his  mother,  who  had  bent  down  over 
her  teacup.  Mabel,  who  had  been  watching  her  mother 
since  the  mention  of  the  Ashen  Fagot,  got  up  quickly, 
saying,  — 

"  O,  there 's  papa ;  I  'm  sure  I  heard  his  horse.  Let  us 
go  and  bring  him  in." 

The  breakfast  circle  broke  up  at  once.     Willie  lingered, 


THE  ASHEN  FAGOT.  17 

looking   at   his   mother,   who    looked    up    presently,    and 
said,  — 

"  You  can  take  papa's  skates,  dear ;  but  you  must  n't  have 
the  other  pair." 

"  Of  course,  dear  mother,  I  know,"  he  said,  going  up  to 
her  fondly.  And  she  kissed  him,  and  he  pressed  her  hand, 
and  then  went  off  after  his  brothers.  Mabel  came  back 
with  her  father,  and  took  out  some  embroidery-work,  and 
sat  by  him.  while  Mrs.  Kendrick  poured  out  his  tea.  Each 
of  them  made  some  efforts  to  talk,  but  they  were  failures, 
and  John  Kendrick  finished  his  breakfast  in  silence.  When 
he  had  done,  he  got  up  and  walked  to  one  of  the  windows 
and  looked  out,  and  his  wife  came  and  put  her  hand  on  his 
shouldes.  He  took  her  other  hand  in  his,  and  said,  — 

"  It  was  selfish  of  me  to  leave  you  this  morning,  dear,  but 
I  could  n't  have  borne  the  children's  merry  prattle  so  early. 
I  shall  be  better  before  dinner-time.  What  are  the  boys 
doing?" 

"  They  have  gone  down  to  the  pond,  dear,  full  of  all  their 
plans.  They  are  very  happy.  Shall  we  dine  alone,  — just 
you,  I,  and  Mabel?" 

"  No,  no !  I  niust  face  it.  It 's  only  just  to-day.  One 
must  make  home  cheerful  to  them  in  their  holidays." 

"  Indeed,  dear  John,  they  are  very  happy ;  are  not  they, 
Mabel?" 

"  Yes,  really,  papa ;  and  Willie  is  so  thoughtful  and  nice." 

"  He  's  a  fine  character,  thank  God,"  said  Mr.  Kendrick ; 
and  then,  after  a  minute's  pause,  he  went  on :  "  Only  to 
have  written  those  three  lines  all  this  time.  For  myself,  I 
should  n't  wonder,  but  the  cruelty  of  such  silence  to  you,  — 
to  Mabel—" 

"But,  dearest  John,  remember  they  were  written  on 
board  ship.  He  may  never  have  had  a  chance  of  writing 
again." 

"  God  knows,  dearest     A  cold  heart,  I  fear." 
2 


18  THOMAS  HUGHES. 

"O,  no,  papa.  Indeed  you  wrong  him.  He  -was  wild 
and  headstrong,  but  never  cold  or  cruel." 

"  I  would  give  all  I  an  worth  to  be  sure  of  it,  Mabel. 
Come,  come,  we  must  bear  it  as  we  may.  Shall  we  walk 
out  presently,  dear?  I  want  to  go  to  the  bailiff's  cottage, 
and  to  call  at  old  Jacob  Eagleton's.  His  wife  's  ill  again ; 
we  can  carry  her  some  wine,  and  take  the  pond  on  the  way 
home,  and  see  the  boys  slide." 

"  In  half  an  hour,  dear  ?  " 

"  Yes.  You  and  Mabe  will  call  for  me,  then,  in  my 
room." 

John  Kendrick  went  to  his  study,  and  sat  down  before 
his  library  table,  and  looked  for  five  minutes  absently  across 
the  room  and  out  of  the  window ;  a  most  unwonted  thing 
for  him.  Then  he  roused  himself  with  a  start  and  a  sigh, 
and  took  a  small  bundle  of  letters  and  papers,  chiefly  bills, 
out  of  the  drawer  of  his  library  table.  The  letters  were  in 
a  school-boy  hand.  He  read  them  through,  tied  up  the 
packet,  and  put  them  back,  and  then  went  and  unlocked  a 
cupboard,  and  was  looking  at  a  cap,  a  riding-whip,  and 
cricket-bat,  and  other  articles  of  dress  and  sport  which  it 
contained,  when  he  heard  his  wife's  step.  He  shut  and 
locked  the  door  of  the  cupboard,  and  turned  to  meet  her 
and  Mabel. 

"  Here  we  are,  dear,  ready  for  our  walk,  and  here 's  the 
post-bag." 

John  Kendrick  took  it  and  unlocked  it,  turning  the  con- 
tents on  to  his  table.  A  couple  of  papers  and  a  half  a 
dozen  letters  fell  out.  He  took  up  the  first  and  was  reading 
it,  when  his  wife  broke  out, — 

"O    John,  look  here!  what  is  this?" 

She  held  out  to  him  a  soiled  letter,  with  a  strange  stamp 
on  it.  He  took  it,  looked  at  it  for  a  moment,  tore  it  open 
with  a  trembling  hand,  and  glanced  through  it,  and  then, 
handing  it  to  his  wife,  leant  forward  on  the  table,  burying 
his  face  in  his  hands. 


THE  ASHEN  FAGOT.  19 

Mabel  read  eagerly  over  her  mother's  shoulder,  glancing 
rapidly  from  the  page  to  the  loved  face,  out  of  which  the 
look  of  repressed  sorrow  which  had  haunted  it  for  more 
than  a  year  was  passing,  while  tears  ran  down  her  cheeks, 
and  hindered  her  from  reading.  But,  as  she  finished,  she 
stooped,  and  threw  her  arm  round  her  husband's  neck  and 
said, — 

"  John,  God  has  been  very  good  to  us  to-day.  This  day, 
too,  of  all  others." 

Mr.  Kendrick  squeezed  his  wife's  hand,  and  then  got  up 
and  took  two  or  three  turns  about  the  room,  while  his  wife 
and  daughter  still  pored  over  the  letter. 

"  He  is  alive,  at  any  rate,  and  well,  and  earning  his  bread 
honestly.  *  But  why  could  n't  he  have  written  before  ?  Why 
does  n't  he  write  himself  now  ? " 

"  O  John,  I  can  quite  understand.  It  was  so  natural  that 
he  should  get  this  friend  to  write  for  him." 

"  What 's  the  name  ?  " 

"  The  signature  is  H.  Upton.  What  can  we  do  to  thank 
him?" 

"  What  is  the  date  of  the  letter  ?  Let  me  see  the  en- 
velope. Why,  how  can  it  have  been  so  long  ?  The  post- 
mark is  July  22d." 

"  Is  it  longer  than  it  should  have  been  ?  " 

"  Yes,  the  regular  mail  comes  in  less  than  three  months." 

"  Three  months,  papa !  what  a  dreadful  distance ! "  said 
Mabel ;  "  we  may  write  to  him  at  once,  now  that  we  know 
where  he  is,  to  tell  him  to  come  home,  may  n't  we  ?  " 

"  We'll,  we  will  think  it  over,  Mabe.  Perhaps  he  is  bet- 
ter where  he  is." 

"  Poor  boy !  I  wonder  how  he  will  spend  this  Christmas." 

Jacob  Eagleton's  wife  got  a  double  allowance  of  wine- 
that  morning  when  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Kendrick  and  their 
daughter  visited  her. 

"  Wutever  can  be  cum  to  the  squire  and  missis  ?  "  the  old 


20  THOMAS  HUGHES. 

woman  muttered,  as  they  left  her ;  "  thaay  hen't  looked  so 
cheerful,  not  scarce  since  'em  wur  married. " 

Every  one  who  met  them  in  their  walk  made  some  re- 
mark of  the  same  kind. 


CHAPTER    III. 

"  WHAT  did  that  old  fellow  call  this  road  of  yours,  John- 
ny T"  asked  the  elder  of  our  two  travellers,  giving  his 
shoulders  a  shake,  which  sent  an  accumulation  of  an  inch 
or  so  of  snow  off  them. 

"  A  unked  road  to  kep  in  a  vail,"  answered  Johnny,  imi- 
tating the  carrier's  accent. 

"By  Jove,  he's  right!  How  it  does  come  down!  I 
had  almost  forgotten  what  snow  was  like,  though  I  rather 
enjoy  it." 

"It  must  have  been  snowing  up  here  for  hours.  Look 
how  deep  it  is.  Four  or  five  inches  at  least,  already." 

"  Whereabouts  are  we  ?  We  should  be  half-way,  at  any 
rate,  by  this  time." 

"  That  we  must  be,  for  we  're  on  level  ground.  It  is  n't 
quite  two  miles  now  to  the  dip  just  above." 

They  walked  on  for  a  minute  or  two  in  silence.  "  What 's 
the  matter,  Johnny  ?  what  are  you  sighing  at  ?  " 

"  I  've  half  a  mind  to  turn  back.  I  almost  wish  I  had 
stayed  out  on  your  run,  instead  of  coming  home." 

"Nonsense,  man.  Cheer  up.  Why,  in  an  hour's  time 
you  '11  be  warming  yourself  by  the  Ashen  Fagot,  you  've 
told  me  so  much  about.  We  couldn't  have  hit  a  more 
lucky  day." 

"But  don't  you  remember?  Ashen  Fagot  Night  was 
the  very  time  that  it  all  began." 

"  And  the  properest  night,  then,  for  it  all  to  end." 

"  They  never  answered  your  letter ! " 

"There  was  no  time,  man.  The  answer  couldn't  have 
come  out  before  we  had  started." 


THE  ASHEN  FAGOT.  21 

«  And  you  think  it  will  be  all  right,  then  ?  If  they  only 
knew  how  bitterly  I  have  grieved  over  it  all,  and  how  I 
have  longed  to  see  home  again !  And  now  I  'm  here,  I 
don't  know  how  to  face  them.  I  almost  wish  I  was  back 
again." 

"  Cheer  up,  Johnny.  Why,  nothing  would  serve  you  but 
coming  right  off,  the  moment  we  landed,  without  giving  me 
an  hour  hi  London,  and  now  you  want  to  be  back  again. 
Why,  man,  it  will  be  the  happiest  minute  of  their  lives, 
when  they  see  you  again." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  I  'm  sure  of  it.  But  I  '11  be  hanged  if  I  know  when  it 's 
likely  to  be,  though.  I  can't  see  five  yards  ahead.  All  the 
snow  in  the  heavens  seems  coming  straight  down  on  us. 
Do  you  think  we  're  in  the  road  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  hope  so ;  but  let 's  see."  And  Johnny  stooped 
down  and  scratched  a  hole  in  the  snow  with  his  hand ;  the 
result  of  which  was  "  Hullo  ! "  and  a  long  whistle. 

"Eh,  what  is  it?" 

"  Grass,  by  Jove !     We  're  on  the  downs." 

"  Well,  that 's  jolly.  Let 's  try  again."  So  the  two  tried 
several  more  places  on  each  side  of  their  track,  with  no 
better  success. 

"  Here  's  a  pretty  go.  Confound  your  linked  road !  we 
shall  have  to  camp  out,  or  walk  all  night." 

"  I  hope  not.  If  we  go  on,  we  must  hit  the  Avenly  dip 
somewhere." 

"  Come  along,  then.     It 's  no  good  standing  here." 

They  pushed  on  again,  and  soon  began  to  be  amused  by 
their  adventure,  and  laughed  and  chatted,  in  defiance  of 
snow  and  downs.  Their  talk  turned  on  home,  and  the  elder 
was  describing  his  feelings  on  coming  back. 

"  By  the  way,  Herbert,  you  've  never  told  me  why  you 
left  the  old  country." 

u  Because  I  could  n't  live  in  it,  Johnny.     At  my  father's 


22  THOMAS  HUGHES. 

death  I  was  left  with  a  magnificent  patrimony  of  £  400  and 
a  clerk's  place  of  £  40  a  year.  That  did  n't  suit  me.  Be- 
sides, to  tell  the  truth,  I  was  in  a  bad  way,  —  ready  to  hang 
myself  about  a  young  woman.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but 
to  bolt,  and  seek  my  fortune." 

"  And  you  Ve  found  it,  too." 

"  Yes,  in  one  way.  But  it  does  n't  seem  worth  much 
after  all." 

"  Is  she  married  then  ?  " 

"  Heaven  knows.  I  had  a  letter  from  her  father,  an  old 
family  friend,  five  years  back.  I  think  he  suspected  how 
matters  stood.  I  never  spoke,  of  course,  as  she  was  quite  a 
girl,  and  it  would  n't  have  been  fair.  I  wrote  to  him  several 
times,  but  letters  miscarry  from  our  parts.  Then  I  wrote 
to  some  people  I  knew,  and  got  an  answer  that  he  had  left 
our  old  neighborhood.  Hullo!  we  Ve  run  against  something 
at  last.  What 's  this  ?  " 

"  All  right.  It 's  one  of  the  down  barns,"  said  Johnny, 
when  they  had  groped  their  way  round  the  building,  which 
they  had  nearly  run  against;  "we  shall  most  likely  be  ahle 
to  get  in." 

But  they  tried  both  the  great  side-doors  and  found  them 
locked.  "  Hark !  did  n't  I  hear  a  sheep  bleat  ?  " 

"Very  likety.  There's  often  a  fold  and  a  shepherd's 
cottage  close  by ;  which  way  was  it  ?  " 

"  Just  down  here." 

They  followed  the  sound  for  a  short  distance,  and  came 
upon  haulm  walls  and  hurdles,  within  which  were  a  large 
flock  of  sheep,  and  the  next  moment  heard  furious  barking. 
Then  through  the  down-pour  of  snow  they  made  out  a  small 
cottage,  the  door  of  which  opened,  and  a  tall  figure  in  smock- 
frock  and  long  leather  gaiters  appeared,  thrown  out  into 
relief  by  the  light  in  the  room  behind  him. 

"Quiet  w'oot!  Dal  th'  noise!  Cas'n't  let'm  harken?" 
As  the  dog  ceased  barking,  the  shepherd's  ear  caught  the 


THE  ASHEN   FAGOT.  23 

crunching  of  the  snow  under  their  feet  as  they  approached 
«  Hullo,  ther' !  Wut  be  at  wi'  the  vauld  ?  " 

"  AVe  've  lost  our  way  on  the  downs  to-night,  that 's  all. 
We  came  upon  your  fold  by  good  luck ;  may  we  sit  down 
till  the  storm 's  over  ?  " 

The  shepherd  looked  somewhat  suspiciously  at  them  at 
Crst,  but  then  moved  aside. 

"  Ees,  ee  med  cum  in.  But  'twunt  last  long  this  starm." 
So  they  entered  the  cottage,  a  low  two-roomed  place,  the 
living-room  opening  to  the  outer  air,  in  which  they  found 
the  shepherd's  wife,  and  tailless  dog,  a  small,  carefully-nursed 
fire,  and  the  tea-things  laid. 

The  occasion  was  just  the  one  for  the  elder  traveller,  and 
he  proved  <mite  equal  to  it  Under  his  influence  the  shep- 
herd's wife  bustled  about,  and  the  fire  was  piled  up  with  as 
much  fuel  of  old  fagots,  coke,  and  cinders  as  would  have 
lasted  the  worthy  couple  a  fortnight ;  the  kettle  sung  and 
puffed  away  at  the  unwonted  stimulant  administered  to  him ; 
the  three  mugs  of  the  establishment  were  produced,  and 
Johnny  brought  out  a  flask  from  his  knapsack,  full  of  good 
brandy.  The  coats  were  shaken  by  the  shepherd,  and  hung 
up  on  pegs  to  dry,  and  in  five  minutes'  time  the  whole  party 
was  settled  down,  —  the  hosts  to  their  tea,  and  the  guests  to 
a  mug  of  grog  each. 

"  Well,  Johnny,  this  is  n't  a  bad  change  from  the  Downs, 
eh  ?  Look  here,  ma'am ;  let  me  put  a  drop  of  brandy  in 
your  tea ;  you  can't  think  what  a  good  thing  it  is.  Eh, 
shepherd,  you  '11  try  my  prescription,  too,  won't  you  ?  " 

"  Ef  you  plaase,  zur.  Ah,  it  do  'mazingly  flavor  th'  tea ; 
d'wont  it,  Betty  ?  Wun't  you  tek'  nothin'  to  yeat,  zur  ? 
You  be  raal  welcum  to 't" 

"  No,  thankee ;  we  fed  at  Lilburne.  But  if  your  wife 
does  n't  mind  smoking  —  " 

"Blessee,  noa,  zur.  Do'ee  light  up.  Hur  be  terrible 
vond  o'  th'  smell  o'  baccur,  tho'  hur  dwon't  zmoke." 


24  THOMAS  HUGHES. 

«  But  you  do,  shepherd?" 

"  Lord,  ees,  zur." 

"  Then  you  must  take  some  of  my  stock  " ;  and,  suiting 
the  action  to  the  word,  he  emptied  his  big  pouch  on  the 
table,  and,  separating  the  contents,  pushed  about  two  thirds 
over  towards  the  shepherd,  whose  eyes  glistened  at  the 
sight. 

"  'T  is  very  kind  o'  you,  zur ;  but,  can  'ee  spare  't  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  there  's  plenty  more  where  that  came  from. 
And,  now  you  Ve  done  your  tea,  draw  round,  and  brew  a 
good  mug  of  that  stuff.  Don't  be  afraid  of  it;  it  won't 
hurt  you,  nor  you,  ma'am,  either,  such  a  night  as  this.  Your 
health,  ma'am  ;  your  health,  shepherd ;  and  yours,  Johnny, 
and  a  merry  Christmas  to  you  all." 

"  The  zaam  to  you,  gen'l'men,  and  many  ov  'em." 

The  shepherd  drinks,  and  passes  the  mug  to  his  wife,  and 
then  produces  a  short  black  pipe,  which  he  fills,  and  sucks 
at  with  evident  delight,  Herbert  watching  him.  "  There  's 
nothing  so  comforting,  when  one  's  out  with  the  sheep  at 
nights,  as  a  pinch  of  good  tobacco,  eh,  shepherd  ?  " 

"  Ther'  beant,  zur.     But  how  do  'ee  cum  to  know  't  ?  " 

"  Oh !  I  'm  a  shepherd  myself." 

"  Noa,  be  'ee  though  ?  Thee  dost  n't  look  like  one,  zur. 
Wut  zart  o'  vlock  's  yourn,  zrar  ?  " 

u  I  Ve  three  or  four,  of  a  thousand  each." 

"  Vour  thousand  zhep !  I  hopes  you  've  got  volks  wi' 
some  gumption  in  'em,  zur,  to  look  arter  'em  these  cowld 
nights." 

"  O,  it 's  lambing  time  with  us,  and  we  never  have  any 
nights  like  this." 

Shepherd  chuckles,  and  looks  incredulous. 

"  You  don't  believe  me,  I  see,  shepherd." 

"  I  never  heer'd  tell  o'  lambin'  much  afore  Easter." 

"  But  you  don't  understand.  It 's  summer  now  where  1 
live." 


THE  ASHEN  FAGOT.  25 

"  Zummer  at  Christmas  time !  a  martal  queer  time  o'  year 
for  zummer,  zur." 

"  Yes,  real  hot  summer." 

"  Wher  do  'ee  live,  then,  zur  ?  " 

"On  the  other  side  of  the  world.  In  Xew  South 
Wales." 

"  Dear  heart  !  and  zo  't  is  zummer  in  them  parts  at 
Christmas  time?  "Well,  'tis  mighty  curous  to  think  on, 
now." 

"  Do'st  mind,  Jonas,  as  Mrs.  Gibbins  said,  as  her  sen  as 
wur  transported  wrote  from  Botany  Bay  as  the  seasons  wur 
all  got  wrong  ther  ?  Zo  a  zend  to  zay." 

"  You  dwon't  cum  from  Botany  Bay,  zur,  do  'ee  ?  " 

"  Well,  k  's  in  the  same  part  of  the  world.  But  we  're 
not  returned  convicts,  if  that 's  what  you  mean." 

Shepherd  glances  at  his  wife,  and  seems  much  relieved. 

"  But  you  may  depend  upon  it,  that 's  the  place  for  us 
shepherds.  What  would  you  say  now  to  fifty  pounds  a 
year,  and  your  keep,  with  as  much  beef  and  mutton  as  you 
could  eat?  You  don't  get  anything  like  that  in  the  old 
country." 

Shepherd  stops  smoking  and  opens  his  eyes,  "  Vifty 
pound  a  year!" 

"Ay,  every  penny  of  it,  and  not  a  bit  too  much.  I 
should  like  to  know  who  ought  to  be  well  paid  if  the  shep- 
herd is  n't 

*  If  't  was  n't  for  the  sheep  and  the  poor  shepherd, 
The  world  would  be  starved  and  naked,' 

you  know." 

"  So  you  knows  th'  owld  zhearing  zong  ?  " 

'•  No,  I  only  know  a  line  or  two  that  I  've  picked  up  from 
my  friend  here.  I  should  like  to  hear  it  of  all  things.  Can't 
you  give  it  us  ?  " 

The  shepherd  looks  shy,  but,  after  a  little  persuasion  from 
his  wife,  who  declares  that  he  is  noted  for  singing,  he  clears 
his  throat  and  croons  out :  — 


26  THOMAS  HUGHES. 

"  Zeng,  bwoys,  zeng,  a  zhepherd  's  as  happy  as  a. lord, 
And  a  /.hep  's  the  vinest  creetur  owld  England  can  afford, 
And,  if  you  listens  vor  a  while,  the  truth  I  zoon  will  tell  'ee, 
'T  is  clothin'  to  the  back,  my  bwoys,  and  linin'  to  the  belly. 
The  zhepherd  stands  beneath  the  bush,  a-shiverin'  and  shakin' 
If  't  was  n't  vor  th'  zhep  and  th'  poor  zhepherd  th'  world  'd  go  stan  ed 

and  nuked. 

All  along  the  winter  time  we  gives  our  zhep  some  hay, 
Keps  fodderin'  and  fodderin'  o'n  until  the  month  of  May. 
And,  when  the  month  of  May  cums  in,  if  the  weather  should  prove  fine, 
The  little  lambs  will  skip  and  play,  and  plaase  the  zhepherd's  mind. 
And,  when  the  month  of  June  cums  in,  if  the  weather  should  prove  hct, 
We  teks  the  clothin'  off  their  backs,  while  the  pudding  's  in  the  pot. 
And  then  agen  at  night,  my  bwoys,  together  we  will  zeng, 
For  a  zhepherd  lives  as  happy  as  ever  a  prince  or  king." 

"  Thank  you.  I  shall  carry  the  old  song  back  to  the  other 
side  of  the  world.  Now,  shepherd,  come,  take  another  glass. 
The  brandy  is  n't  out,  you  see." 

The  shepherd,  after  some  coquetting,  makes  another  mix- 
ture in  his  cup,  and  hands  it  to  his  wife,  who  puts  down  her 
knitting,  and  gets  up  to  make  a  little  courtesy,  and  say,  "  Your 
health,  gentl'men."  The  shepherd  takes  a  drink. 

"  Ah !  it  zims  to  do  a  body  good,  that  do,  now,  —  to  put 
the  heart  into  'un,  zur." 

"  I  'm  glad  you  like  it,  You  must  have  a  hard  life  of  it 
up  here  on  the  downs  at  times." 

"Ah,  't  is,  zur,  I  assure  'ee,  and  I  had  ought  to  know. 
Nigh  varty  year,  man  and  bwoy,  I  've  ben  a  zheperdin',  and 
afore  that  I  wur  bird-kepin',  when  I  wur  quite  a  leetel  'un. 
I  allus  liked  bird-kepin^  and  I  've  zhot  a  zite  on  'em  wi'  th' 
owld  king's-arm  as  maester  kep  vor  't." 

"  What  was  the  best  shot  you  ever  made,  now  ?  " 

"  Well,  zur,  I  '11  tell  'ee.  It  wur  at  th'  rooks,  and,  ef  you 
knows  about  bird-kepin',  you  minds  how  keen  the  rooks  be 
at  seedin'  time,  to  light  and  snicker  about  wher'  thaay  can 
see  arra  bit  ov  a  scratch,  specially  in  the  niornin's.  So  I 
casts  about  in  my  yead  —  I  haint  got  much  book-larnin',  but 
I  Ve  got  a  yead  on  m'  zhoulders  as  answers  to  't  —  how  to 


THE  ASHEX   FAGOT.  27 

cotch  'em,  cos'  'em  be  aggravatin'  birds,  plague}  cunnin'  let 
'em  be  never  zo  lear.  One  mornin'  afore  light  I  hucks  up  a 
bit  o'  ground  right  afore  the  barn  ther',  and  drows  a  handful 
o*  zeed  corn  auver  the  scratch,  and  gets  inside  zo  as  um 
med  n't  zee  m',  and  then  puts  two  pipes-full  o'  powder,  and 
a'mwoost  all  the  shot  as  I  M  got,  into  the  gun,  and  waits. 
Arter  a  bit  I  hears  one  on  'em  a  cawin'  up  above,  and  then 
down  a  cums,  plump.  Th'  owld  wosbird  teks  a  look  at  th' 
barn,  but  both  doors  was  wide  open,  zo  as  a'  could  zee  right 
droo.  Zo  a  gevs  a  caw  as  tho'  'twur  all  right  (a  could  n't 
zee  I,  for  a  bit  o'  straw  as  I  'd  got  round  m')  and  falls  to 
hisself,  and,  a'most  afore  you  could  look,  the  scratch  wur  all 
black  wi'  'em,  scrouging  and  cawin'  together.  Then  I  zets 
up  zoftly  and  teks  a  long  breath,  and  zhuts  m'  eyes,  and  pulls. 
A  went  off  wi'  th'  mwost  all-fired  noise,  and  kicked  I  fit  to 
bust.  Wen  I  cum  to,  and  zet  up  in  the  straw,  and  could 
look  out,  '  Lord,'  sez  I, '  wut !  haint  I  killed  not  one  on  'em  ? ' 
Then  I  hears  a  floppeting  behind  m',  and  turns  round.  You 
zee,  zur,  th'  owld  king's-arm  had  took  and  kicked  I  right 
round,  zo  as  I  wur  looking  out  o'  t'other  door  o'  the  barn  wen 
I  cum  *o." 

"  O  yes,  shepherd,  I  dare  say." 

"  Well,  but  when  you  got  faced  round  again  to  the  right 
door  what  had  you  done  ?  " 

"  Lord,  zur,  the  ground  wur  all  black  wi'  'em,  mostly 
dead,  but  zum  on  'em  hobblin'  about,  —  more  nor  dree-score 
on  'em  —  " 

The  shepherd  is  interrupted  by  the  laughter  of  the  younger 
of  his  guests. 

"  You  med  b'leeve  m'  or  not,  as  you  plazes,  zur." 

"  Threescore  rooks  at  a  shot.  What  do  you  say  to  that, 
ma'am  ?  " 

"  'T  wur  afore  my  time,  zur,  but  I  never  heerd  Jonas  tell 
it  no  other  waay." 

"  Well,  it  would  take  a  big  whale  to  swallow  you,  Jonas." 


28  THOMAS  HUGHES. 

"  Poor  owld  mother  tuk  and  put  zum  on  'em  into  a  pie 
But  'em  did  yeat  terrible  runk,  —  I  wun't  deny  but  'em  wur 
terrible  runk." 

"  So  I  should  think.  Let 's  see,  what 's  the  time  ?  Not 
half  past  seven.  How  's  the  night,  shepherd  ?  " 

The  shepherd  gets  up  and  goes  to  the  door. 

Johnny,  in  a  low  voice  to  Herbert,  "I  know  all  about 
where  we  are  now,  —  only  about  a  mile  and  a  half  from 
home.  It 's  the  great  barn  we  used  to  call  the  haunted 
barn." 

"  What  was  it  haunted  with  ?  " 

"  Cats  ;  I  '11  tell  you  the  story  presently.  I  don't  want  to 
talk,  or  Jonas  might  recognize  me." 

"  Not  he.  Well,  what  do  you  make  of  the  night,  shep- 
herd ?  " 

« 'T  is  clearin'  off,  zur.     'T  will  be  vine  enuff  d'rectly." 

"  Did  you  ever  see  any  ghosts  in  the  barn  ?  " 

"  Haw  !  haw !  Noa,  zur.  Ther'  beant  no  bogles  up  here ; 
thaay  keps  down  below,  thaay  does." 

"  Well,  we  may  as  well  be  getting  ready  for  a  start."  So 
they  got  up,  put  on  their  coats,  shouldered  their  knapsacks, 
and,  having  astonished  Jonas's  wife  by  a  present  of  five  shil- 
lings to  buy  fuel  with,  stepped  out,  accompanied  by  Jonas. 

The  last  flakes  of  the  snow-storm  were  falling,  and  the 
moon  shone  out  keen  and  white,  and  the  air  felt  deliciously 
keen  and  fresh  after  Jonas's  little  close  hole  of  a  kitchen. 

"  How  splendid ! "  said  Herbert,  as  they  paused  before  the 
cottage  door.  "  Hark !  don't  I  hear  bells  ?  " 

"  Zartin  zhure.  Thaay  be  Avenly  Christmas  bells,  zur,  a 
ringin'  for  Squire  Kendrick's  Ashen  Fagot.  Thaay  '11  be 
lightin'  he  up  zmartish,  I  '11  war'nd." 

"  We  can  go  straight  across  to  Avenly,  I  suppose." 

"  Ees,  zur,  straight  as  you  plaazes.  Zo  you  be  gwine  to 
Avsnly?" 

<<  Yes,  I  hope  so." 


THE  ASHEN  FAGOT.  29 

"  Did  'ce  ever  heer  o'  th'  Squire's  zon  as  runnecl  a~w  aay 
vrom  whoam  out  in  thaay  forrin  parts,  zur  ?  " 

"  I  never  met  any  one  who  went  by  that  name.  So  the 
Squire's  son  ran  away  from  home  ?  " 

"  Ees  a  did,  mwoar'  nor  a  year  ago." 

«  How  was  that  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  d'  wont  kneow  th'  rights  on  't,  zur.  I  Ve  heerd 
as  a  wur  zo  nat'rally  grounded  wi'  pride  and  obs'tncy  a 
would  n't  tek  a  word  vrom  's  own  vather.  Then  a'  spent  a 
zite  o'  money,  I  heerd,  at  college.  Hows'mever,  won  daay, 
th'  Squire  spoke  zharper  n'  usual  to  'n,  and  a  went  aff  then 
and  ther.  A  wa'  n't  a  bad  haart  neither ;  that  I  'ool  zaay 
var  'n.  I  've  a  zeed  un  about  wi'  Tummus  scoors  o'  times  ; 
TummuSmbe  the  Squire's  zhepherd,  and  wur  main  vond 
ov  'n.  But  a  'd  got  a  zart  o'  prodigalish  Avaay  wi'  un  as 
did  n't  bode  no  good." 

"  Well,  shepherd,  I  hope  he  '11  come  to  his  senses  and  get 
back  home  soon." 

"  I  wishes  a  med,  zur.  For  th'  Squire  hev  never  rightly 
held  up  s'  yead  sence  he  bin  gone ;  nor  madam  neither.  And 
there  a'n't  a  better  maester  nor  missus  in  th'  whole  country 
zide.  I  kneows  I  wishes  I  'd  been  barn  on  he's  lands." 

"  Well,  good  by,  shepherd.  I  hope  we  may  meet  again 
before  long." 

"  I  dwon't  care  how  zoon,  zur.  But  shall  I  gwo  'lang  with 
'ee  a  bit,  to  show  'ee  th'  waay  ?  " 

"  No,  thanks,  we  shall  do  famously ;  good  night." 

So  they  shook  the  horny  hand  of  their  host,  and  went  olF 
across  the  glittering  snow  in  the  still  moonlight  towards 
Avenly  dip,  with  the  Christmas  chime  coming  up  from  the 
little  hamlet,  and  speaking  to  open  hearts,  of  the  child  that 
was  born,  and  the  shepherds  that  kept  their  flocks,  in  a  far 
land,  near  twenty  centuries  ago. 


30  THOMAS  HUGHES. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

"  LET  tV  adze  'bide,  Maester  Dick  ;  let  th'  adze  'bide,  I 
tell  'ee.  Dal'd  if  I  dwon't  gev  thee  the  stick,  ef  thee  gwoes 
an  spwilin'  the  tools,  aal  as  I  can  zaay." 

Dick  Kendrick,  to  whom  this  objurgation  was  addressed 
in  the  outhouse  next  the  stable  of  Avenly  Manor-House, 
which  was  used  for  a  carpenter's  shop,  dropped  the  forbidden 
adze  for  the  moment.  Moses  Ockle,  the  carpenter,  his  in- 
terlocutor, went  on  with  his  work  for  some  time  with  one 
eye  on  the  adze,  but  presently  relaxed  his  vigilance,  and 
Dick  had  hold  of  the  adze  again,  and  was  chipping  away  at 
a  tough  log  of  timber,  "  before  a  body  could  wink  a'mwoast," 
as  his  victim  described  it.  The  second  or  third  chink  of  the 
adze,  however,  recalled  Moses  to  the  state  of  affairs,  and, 
dropping  the  saw  he  was  using,  he  caught  up  the  nearest 
switch  he  could  lay  hands  on,  and  made  at  Dick,  who  bolted 
behind  the  big  bench  which  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  shop, 
meaning  to  parley.  This  afforded  him  protection  for  the 
moment,  but,  seeing  that  Moses  was  in  earnest,  and  would 
infallibly  reach  him  over  the  bench,  he  broke  cover,  and 
made  for  the  open  door,  upsetting,  on  his  way,  the  cross- 
trees  at  which  the  pursuer  had  been  working,  and  just  escap- 
ing a  swingeing  blow,  which  the  enraged  carpenter,  his  shins 
smarting  from  contact  with  the  over-set  cross-trees,  aimed  at 
him,  and  which  fell  on  the  door-post. 

"  Od,  drattle  th'  young  carcass,"  growled  Moses,  as  he 
gathered  up  his  work  and  went  on  with  it ;  "  thee  bist  he 
very  moral  o'  thy  brother.  He  wur  transpAvorted,  or  zum- 
mat  equal  to  't,  and  thou  'It  cum  to  the  gallus,  zhure  as  my 
neam  's  Moses." 

"  Well,  Moses,"  said  William  Kendrick,  entering  a  few 
minutes  afterwards,  "  you  're  making  the  Ashen  Fagot  for 
to-  night,  arn't  you  ?  " 


THE  ASHEN  FAGOT.  31 

«  Ees,  Maester  Willum." 

"  "Will  you  please  make  a  smaller  one,  too  ?  You  '11  be 
glad,  I  know,  to  hear  that  we  have  had  news  of  my  brother. 
So  papa  and  mamma  say  the  children  may  have  a  fagot 
before  the  supper  begins." 

"  That  I  'ool,  Maester  Willum.  And  how  many  hoops  '11 
'ee  hev  to  un  ?  " 

"  0,  four  or  five,  Moses." 

"  Zaay  arf  a  dozen,  zur.  But  I  be  mazin'  glad  to  heai 
about  th'  young  squire.  And  wher  be  un,  then,  Maester 
Willum,  make  zo  bowld,  and  wut  be  un  doin'  ov  ?  " 

"  He  is  in  Australia,  right  on  the  other  side  of  the  world, 
Moses.  And  he  is  very  well,  and  doing  capitally.  He  is  a 
sort  of  head  man  to  a  great  sheep  farmer  there." 

"  Th'  young  squire  a  zhepperdin  !  Maester  William  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Moses,  and  w^-  not  ?  The  sheep  farmers  are  the 
great  people.  I  shouiu.  like  nothing  better  than  to  go  out 
myself,  and  make  my  own  way  there.  But  can't  you  let  me 
help  you  ?  I  should  so  like  to  help  make  the  Ashen  Fagots 
for  to-night." 

Moses  was  nothing  loath.  Willie  was  a  very  different  style 
of  boy  from  Dick,  and  so  the  two  worked  on  together,  Moses 
cutting  ash-poles  for  the  two  fagots,  and  Willie  under  his 
direction  preparing  the  hazel-rods  for  the  hoops. 

"  Why  don't  you  make  the  hoops  of  ash,  too,  Moses  ?  " 

"  'Cause  hazel  burns  slawer,  and  zo  howlds  th'  vagot  to- 
gether langer." 

By  the  time  it  was  dusk  they  had  finished  binding  the  two 
fagots  ;  one  a  monster,  some  six  feet  long,  with  about  a 
dozen  hazel  hoops  round  him,  the  other  a  miniature  one 
of  half  the  size.  Willie  marched  off  in  triumph  with  the 
smaller,  leaving  the  carpenter  to  follow  with  the  other  when 
lie  had  tidied  up  the  place  a  bit,  which  he  did,  muttering  to 
himself:  "And  zo  th'  young  squire  be  zhepperdin,  be  un? 
Ef  a'  had  's  desarvins,  a  'd  be  kepin'  pegs,  like  he  in  Scrip- 


32  THOMAS  HUGHES. 

tur,  and  a  fillin'  ov  's  belly  wi'  th*  husks  as  th'  zwine  did 
yet." 

Willie  and  the  carpenter  deposited  their  burdens  in  a  huge 
lofty  room  at  one  end  of  the  house,  away  from  the  sitting- 
rooms.  It  was  called  the  kitchen,  but  seldom  used  for  that 
purpose,  a  smaller  and  more  central  room  having  succeeded 
it.  It  had  now  become  more  a  servants'  hall,  but  its  special 
vocation,  and  one  for  which  it  was  eminently  qualified,  was 
that  of  receiving  the  periodical  gatherings  at  harvest  homes, 
Ashen  Fagot  nights,  and  such  occasions,  when  the  Ken- 
dricks  made  entertainment  for  their  vassals. 

The  chief  feature  in  the  room  was  the  fireplace,  which 
cannot  be  better  described  than  in  the  homely  words  of  a 
rhymer  of  the  country  :  — 

"  My  veather's  vires  wur  mead  o'  logs 
0'  cleft  'ood  down  upon  the  dogs, 
In  our  girt  vire-pleace,  zo  wide 
As  you  med  draw  a  cart  inzide, 
An  big  an  little  med  zet  down 
On  boath  zides,  an  avore,  an  all  rown; 
An  up  in  corner  thaay  did  hitch 
The  zaalt  box  on  the  bacon  vlitch; 
An,  when  I  wur  a  zettin,  I 
Could  zee  aal  up  into  the  sky 
An  watch  the  zmoke  gwo  vrom  the  vire 
Aal  up  an  out  at  un,  an  higher; 
An  ther'  wur  beacon  upon  rack, 
An  plates  to  yet  it  upon  tack ; 
An  rown  the  walls  were  yarbs,  stowd 
In  peapern  brigs,  an  blathers  bio  wed; 
An  jest  above  the  clavey  boord 
Were  vather's  gun,  an  zpurs,  an  zoord ; 
An  ther'  were  ther'  our  gertest  pride, 
The  zettle  by  the  vire  zide." 

This  room  was  now,  under  the  hands  of  two  maids,  being 
prepared  for  the  evening's  festivities,  while  the  children  ran 
in  and  out,  helping,  as  they  delighted  to  think.  A  bright  fire 
crackled  already  on  the  dogs,  which  were  in  due  time  to 
receive  the  Ashen  Fagots ;  all  the  furniture  was  moved 


THE  ASHEN  FAGOT.  33 

except  the  great  table  which  ran  along  one  side.  There 
was  plenty  of  Christmas,  in  the  shape  of  holly  and  ivy,  over 
the  fireplace  and  on  the  walls,  and  a  bunch  of  mistletoe  hang- 
ing from  a  rack  in  the  middle  of  the  ceiling.  The  Ashen 
Fagots  were  duly  deposited  in  a  corner  of  the  great  fire- 
place, and  by  five  o'clock,  when  the  maids  and  children  went 
off  to  tea,  all  was  ready.  The  kitchen  was  left,  winking 
away  in  the  cosey  firelight,  for  the  fairies,  if  they  pleased,  to 
come  in  and  take  their  pastime  on  the  clean  sanded  floor. 
Meantime,  the  sole  occupants  were  two  robins,  who  seemed 
to  be  thoroughly  satisfied  with  the  asylum  which  they  had 
hit  upon  for  their  Christmas  Eve,  and  chirped  to  one  an- 
other, as  they  flitted  about,  and  peered  with  their  small  bright 
eyes  into%  every  corner,  discoursing,  no  doubt,  of  how  un- 
pleasant the  snow  was  becoming  outside,  and  what  fools  their 
neighbors,  the  wrens  and  sparrows,  were,  not  to  avail  them- 
selves of  such  comfortable  quarters,  before  they  went  up  to 
perch  for  the  night  on  the  bacon  rack. 

The  robins,  no  doubt,  soon  began  to  see  reasons  for  recon- 
sidering their  opinions,  when,  at  about  six  o'clock,  the  door 
which  led  from  the  house  opened,  and  Clara,  Bobby,  and 
Maggie,  and  the  party  of  children  they  had  been  allowed  to 
ask  to  tea,  rushed  into  the  room,  followed  by  Mabel  and  her 
friend  the  clergyman's  daughter,  who  brought  her  little 
nephews,  and  Miss  Smith. 

After  the  first  rush  round  the  great  room,  all  so  nicely 
cleared  for  a  good  romp,  had  been  duly  executed  by  the 
children,  and  candles  had  been  lighted,  there  was  a  call  at 
once  for  the  Ashen  Fagot.  In  fact,  Bobby  and  the  vicar's 
eldest  grandson  had  seized  on  it,  and  were  in  the  act  of 
putting  it  on  the  dogs,  when*  Mabel  suggested  that  it  would 
be  burnt  out  too  soon  if  they  lighted  it  at  once. 

"  O  yes,  let  us  have  a  play  first,"  said  Clara  ;  "  and  then 
we  will  sit  down  and  make  forfeits,  or  Mabel  will  tell  us  a 
story,  and  then  we  can  have  the  fagot" 


34  THOMAS  HUGHES. 

"  And  Aunt  Nellie  will  sing  us  a  song,  won't  you  ?  one 
we  can  all  join  in  ?  "  said  the  vicar's  grandson. 

"O  yes,  Walter,  presently,  when  you  are  all  tired  of 
play."  And  so  to  play  they  went  vigorously.  Blind-man's- 
buff,  hunt-the-slipper,  and  the  post-office,  in  which  latter 
game  Clara  distinguished  herself,  succeeded  one  another 
rapidly ;  and  the  circle  was  constantly  increased  by  the 
arrival  of  one  after  another  of  the  servants,  —  dairy-maid, 
laundry-maid,  house-maid,  nurse-maid,  &c.  The  Ashen  Fag- 
ot was  put  on  in  triumph,  and  blazed  and  crackled  to  the 
complete  satisfaction  of  the  young  ones.  Then  a  great  dish 
came  in  for  snap-dragon,  and  Bobby  and  his  friend  were 
soon  distinguishing  themselves  by  dashing  their  hands 
bravely  into  the  burning  brandy,  and  bringing  out  the 
raisins  for  their  favorites  amongst  the  group  of  girls. 
When  all  the  raisins  had  been  extracted  and  eaten,  and 
the  salt  had  been  duly  thrown  into  the  burning  spirit,  and 
everybody  had  looked  sufficiently  green  and  cadaverous,  a 
cry  for  forfeits  arose.  So  the  party  sat  down  round  Mabel 
on  benches  brought  out  from  under  the  table,  and  Mabel 
began,  — 

"  The  first  day  of  Christmas  my  true  love  sent  to  me  a  partridge  and  a 
pear-tree; 

The  second  day  of  Christmas  my  true  love  sent  to  me  two  turtle-doves, 
a  partridge,  and  a  peai*-tree; 

The  third  day  of  Christmas  my  true  love  sent  to  me  three  fat  hens,  two 
turtle-doves,  a  partridge,  and  a  pear-tree ; 

The  fourth  day  of  Christinas  my  true  love  sent  to  me  four  ducks  quack- 
ing, three  fat  hens,  two  turtle-doves,  a  partridge,  and  a  pear-tree; 

The  fifth  day  of  Christinas  my  true  love  sent  to  me  five  hares  running, 
four  ducks  quacking,  three  fat  hens,  two  turtle-doves,  a  par- 
tridge, and  a  pear-tree." 

And  so  on.  Each  day  was  taken  up  and  repeated  all  round ; 
and  for  every  breakdown  (except  by  little  Maggie,  who 
struggled  with  desperately  earnest  round  eyes  to  follow  the 
rest  correctly,  but  with  very  comical  results),  the  player 
who  made  the  slip  was  duly  noted  down  by  Mabel  for  a 
forfeit. 


THE  ASHEN  FAGOT.  35 

In  tlie  middle  of  the  game,  the  door  which  opened  to  the 
garden  flew  open,  and  Willie  and  Dick  arrived  on  the  scene 
of  action,  with  — 

"  Now  then,  make  room,  here  are  the  mummers ! " 
"  O,  the  mummers,  the  mummers !  hurrah ! "  chorused 
the  infantiy,  as  they  withdrew,  under  Mabel  and  Nelly's 
wing,  to  the  side  and  end  of  the  kitchen.  St.  George  and 
his  adversary  were  then  called  by  the  two  boys,  who  stood 
by  the  door,  as  masters  of  the  ceremonies.  They  came  in, 
shaking  the  snow  from  their  queer  attempts  at  costume, 
consisting  of  helmets,  in  shape  very  like  fool's-caps,  of  dif- 
ferent-colored paper,  and  scraps  of  ribbon  and  colored  cloth 
or  cotton  sewn  on  to  their  smock-frocks.  They  marched 
round  after  one  another,  repeating  their  introductory  verses 
in  a  queer  nasal  singsong,  and  then  fell  to  single  combat 
witli  their  wooden  swords,  which  soon  resulted  in  the  dis- 
comfiture of  St.  George.  His  adversary,  being  of  a  noble 
temper,  now  calls  for  the  doctor. 

"  Doctor,  doctor,  plaay  thy  part ; 
St.  Gaarge  be  wounded  to  the  heart : 
Doctor,  doctor,  come  and  see ; 
St.  Gaarge  be  wounded  in  the  knee." 

The  ridiculous  figure  called  the  doctor  answers  the  ap- 
peal, entering  with  — 

"  Here  euros  I,  a  ten  pound  doctor; 

Ten  pound  is  my  fee ; 
But,  sence  thee  bist  a  vriend  o'  mine, 
I  '11  tek  but  vive  vrom  thee." 

And  so  it  goes  on,  with  much  more  ridiculous  doggerel,  but 
of  absorbing  interest  to  little  Maggie,  and  all  the  younger 
portion  of  the  audience. 

'•  Well,  what  were  you  playing  at  when  we  came  in  ? " 
said  Willie,  as  the  mummers  went  off,  after  getting  the  ac- 
customed gratuity. 

"  Forfeits,"  said  Mabel.  "  Will  you  play  ?  Our  fagot  is 
nearly  out,  so  you  won't  have  much  of  it." 


36  THOMAS  HUGHES. 

"  Hullo  ?  look,  here  's  a  robin ;  what  fun  ! "  said  Dick 
shying  his  cap  at  one  of  the  robins,  who,  from  his  perch  on 
the  rack,  was  contemplating  the  doings  of  mankind,  with  his 
head  on  one  side,  and  thinking  probably  what  fools  they 
must  be,  to  be  carrying  on  their  unmeaning  games,  instead 
of  sleeping  and  letting  him  sleep. 

Dick  had  three  or  four  shots  with  his  cap  at  the  birds, 
before  Mabel,  backed  by  Willie,  to  whom  she  appealed, 
could  make  him  leave  them  alone.  Then  they  took  to  for- 
feits again ;  and  Dick,  who  was  absolute  lord  of  misrule  in 
the  place,  soon  made  it  too  uproarious.  Whenever  it  came 
to  his  turn  to  declare  a  forfeit  (and  he  constantly  managed 
that  it  should  do  so,  by  making  horrible  faces,  and  otherwise 
interrupting  the  one  whose  turn  it  was  to  repeat),  he  played 
some  half-malicious  prank.  At  last,  having  caught  up  the 
dairy-maid,  he  declared  her  forfeit  "  clenching  hands." 
This  operation  is  performed  by  the  caller  and  payer  of  the 
forfeit  standing  up,  and  joining  their  hands  with  the  fingers 
laced,  when  the  gentleman,  by  extending  his  arms,  brings 
the  lady's  face  close  up  to  his  own,  and  kisses  her.  In  the 
present  case,  the  dairy-maid,  being  full  as  strong  as  Master 
Dick,  kept  him  nearly  at  arms'  length;  but  the  attempt 
annoyed  Mabel,  who  put  a  stop  to  the  game.  Whereupon 
Dick  took  himself  off  till  supper-time,  declaring  them  slow. 

They  were  getting  rather  tired,  and  the  embers  of  the 
fagot  were  all  red-hot  and  nearly  consumed ;  so  they  made 
a  circle  round,  and  the  maids  brought  some  logs  and  put 
them  on. 

"  Now,  Aunt  Nelly,  you  must  sing  us  a  song." 

"  O  yes,  the  one  about  the  sisters,  and  the  cherry  with- 
out a  stone,  please,"  said  Bobby. 

"  Very  well.  Mabel,  you  will  take  the  questions.  And, 
mind,  you  must  all  sing  the  chorus." 

**  I  had  four  sisters  lived  over  the  sea, 
Parra  marra  dictum  domine; 


THE  ASHEN  FAGOT.  37 

They  each  sent  a  Christmas  present  to  me, 
Partum  qnartum  paradise  templum, 

Parra  marra  dictum  doraine. 
The  first  sent  a  cherry  without  a  stone, 

Parra  marra  dictum  domine; 
The  second  sent  a  bird  without  a  bone, 

Partum  quartum  paradise  templum,  &c. 
The  third  sent  a  blanket  without  a  thread, 

Parra  marra  dictum  domine: 
The  fourth  sent  a  book  no  man  could  read, 
Partum  quartum  paradise  templum,  &c. 
How  could  it  be  a  cherry  without  a  stone? 

Parra  marra  dictum  domine; 
How  could  it  be  a  bird  without  a  bone? 

Partum  quartum  paradise  templum,  &c. 
How  could  it  be  a  blanket  without  a  thread? 

Parra  marra  dictum  domine ; 
»  How  could  it  be  a  book  no  man  could  read  ? 

Partum  quartum  paradise  templum,  &c. 
When  the  cherry  's  in  the  bud  it  has  no  stone, 

Parra  marra  dictum  domiue ; 
When  the  bird  's  in  the  egg  it  has  no  bone, 
Partum  quartum  paradise  templum,  &c. 
When  the  blanket 's  in  the  fleece  it  has  no  thread,      • 

Parra  marra  dictum  domine ; 
When  the  book  's  in  the  press  no  man  can  read, 
Partum  quartum  paradise  templum, 
Parra  marra  dictum  domine." 

The  song  and  chorus  delighted  the  children;  and  then 
Mabel  was  called  on  for  her  story,  which  would,  no  doubt, 
fascinate  readers  as  much  as  it  did  her  audience  round  the 
remains  of  the  ashen  fagot,  were  there  space  to  give  it. 
And  now  it  was  getting  near  eight  o'clock,  the  chimes  were 
ringing  out,  and  it  was  time  to  prepare  the  kitchen  for  the 
supper  of  the  grown-up  folk.  Nelly  and  her  charge  with- 
drew through  the  house,  and  the  other  children  dispersed. 
Mabel  remained  to  give  an  eye  to  the  supper  arrangements. 
Presently  Bobby  and  Maggie,  who  had  not  yet  been  carried 
off,  ran  up  and  pulled  her  gown. 

"  O  Mabel,  come  and  look,  do  come  and  look ! " 

«  What  is  it,  Bobby  ?  " 


**8  THOMAS  HUGHES. 

"  O,  two  great  hairy  faces,  like  the  giants  in  our  picture 
book ! " 

«  Where  ?     What  do  you  mean,  Bobby  ?  " 

"  Here,  at  the  window.     They  frightened  Maggie  so." 

"  O  yes,  that  they  did,"  said  Maggie,  holding  on  to  her 
sister's  gown.  "  You  ain't  afraid,  Mabel  ?" 

"  No,  dear ;  come  along."  So  s,he  went  to  the  window, 
which  looked  out  on  the  garden,  and  which  she  had  opened 
a  few  minutes  before  to  freshen  the  room. 

"  Why,  Bobby,  you  must  have  fancied  it  all." 

"  No,  no ;  did  n't  we  see  two  great  hairy  faces,  such  big 
ones,  looking  in  ?  " 

"O  yes,  Mabel." 

Mabel  looked  out  carefully  amongst  the  shrubs.  The 
moon  and  snow  made  it  almost  as  light  as  day,  except  just 
in  the  shadow  of  the  house ;  but  she  could  see  nothing. 

"Well,  Bobby,  you  see  they've  run  away.  They 
could  n't  get  through  these  bars  at  any  rate  ;  so  we  're  quite 
safe.  Hark !  there  are  the  school-children,  singing  a  carol 
at  papa's  window.  Come  along ;  you  can  go  and  hear  them, 
and  say  good-night  to  papa."  And  so  Mabel  and  the  chil- 
dren left  the  kitchen. 

***** 

"Nearly  caught,  eh,  Johnny?"  whispered  the  elder  of 
our  travellers,  as  the  two  drew  themselves  up  in  the  shadow 
of  the  house,  behind  a  laurel.  "  Who  was  the  pretty  little 
bright-eyed  girl?" 

"My  little  sister,  Maggie." 

"  And  the  boy  ?  " 

"  My  youngest  brother,  Bob." 

"  And  the  tall  girl  they  ran  up  to  ?  " 

"My  eldest  sister,  Mabel." 

"  You  're  a  lucky  dog.     Hark !  what 's  that  ?  " 

"  The  school-children,  singing  a  carol  before  the  house." 

They  listened  while  the  young  voices  sang  the  grand  old 
caroL  — 


THE   ASHEN  FAGOT.  39 

"  While  shepherds  kept  their  flocks  by  night." 

Neither  spoke  for  some  seconds  after  the  voices  ceased. 

*  What  are  you  going  to  do,  Johnny,"  Herbert  said,  gen- 
tly, at  last. 

"  O,  I  don't  quite  know  yet;  I  am  so  confused  still.  Ton 
don't  mind  waiting  a  little  ?  " 

"  Not  a  bit.  As  long  as  you  please,  so  that  we  get 
housed  by  bedtime." 

"  Here  come  the  people  to  *  Ashen  Fagot,'  stand  back." 
***** 

"  Now,  papa.  They  have  done  supper,  and  Dick  and  I 
have  put  the  Ashen  Fagot  on,  and  it 's  just  blazing  up. 
You  '11  come  in  and  wish  them  a  merry  Christmas,  won't 
you?"  * 

Mr.  Kendrick  rose  from  his  chair  in  the  parlor,  where 
he  was  sitting  with  his  wife  and  Mabel,  and  prepared  to  go 
with  Willie. 

"  But  the  vicar  is  n't  come,"  he  said  ;  "  he  would  like  to 
go  in  with  me  and  say  a  few  words  to  them." 

"  O  John,  I  '11  wait  for  the  vicar  and  Nelly,  and  bring 
them  in  for  a  few  minutes  when  they  come." 

So  Mr.  Kendrick  and  Mabel  went  with  "Willie  back  to 
the  kitchen,  where  the  Ashen  Fagot  was  already  crackling 
and  roaring  away  merrily  on  the  dogs.  The  women,  who 
had  supped  with  their  husbands  and  brothers,  were  seated 
in  the  chimney-corner,  and  round  one  side  of  the  fire  on 
benches,  leaving  the  space  clear  between  the  fire  and  the 
long  table.  At  the  upper  end  of  the  table,  the  bailiff,  the 
carpenter,  the  parish  clerk,  and  the  wheelwright  were 
seated,  and  the  farm-laborers,  men  and  boys,  below.  Ma- 
bel joined  the  women,  while  her  father  took  the  top  of  the 
table;  the  men  all  rising  till  he  had  taken  his  seat,  with 
Willie  by  his  side.  Dick  was  seated  at  his  ease  next  to  .ho 
bailiff,  on  the  opposite  side  from  Moses,  the  carpenter. 

There  were  several  large  copper  jugs  on  the  table,  out  of 
one  of  which  Mr.  Kendrick  filled  a  horn  of  beer. 


40  THOMAS  HUGHES. 

"  Here 's  a  merry  Christmas  to  you  all,"  he  said,  drinking, 
"  and  I  hope  you  've  enjoyed  yourselves  to-night  ?  " 

"  Ees,  ees,  that  us  hev',"  chorused  the  men,  and,  at  a  sign 
from  the  bailiff,  Moses,  the  carpenter,  cleared  his  throat  and 
sang:  — 

"  Here  's  a  health  unto  our  maester, 
Th'  vounder  ov  this  veasfc; 
I  haups  to  God  wi1  aal  my  heart, 
His  sowl  in  heav'n  may  rest, 
And  ael  his  works  med  prawsper, 
Wutever  he  teks  in  hand, 
Vor  we  are  ael  his  zarvents, 
And  ael  at  his  command. 


"  Then  drenk,  bwoys,  drenk, 
And  mind  you  do  not  spill ; 
Vor,  ef  you  do,  you  must  drenk  two, 
Vor  't  is  our  maester's  will." 

"  Your  health,  zur,  and  missus's,  and  ael  th'  fam'ly,  and  a 
merry  Christmas  to  ee  ael,  and  many  ov  'em ! "  followed 
this  poetical  greeting,  which  was  sung  vociferously,  the 
words  being  those  of  an  old  harvest-home  song,  well  known 
for  generations  to  all  the  inhabitants  of  Avenly. 

"  Now  you  can  light  your  pipes,  and  make  the  most  of 
your  time  ;  the  Ashen  Fagot  waits  for  nobody." 

The  lighting  up  of  pipes  soon  followed  this  permission ; 
and  Mr.  Kendrick,  after  chatting  for  a  minute  or  two  to  the 
men  nearest  him,  was  just  getting  up  to  speak,  when  the 
lowest  of  the  hazel  bonds  of  the  Ashen  Fagot  burst. 

"  A  bond !  a  bond !  drenk  to  th'  bond ! "  said  several  voices. 
The  bailiff  looked  at  his  master,  who  seated  himself  at  once. 

"  No,  no,  I  can  wait,"  he  said ;  "  keep  to  your  custom.  A 
sip  and  a  song  for  every  bond." 

This  saying  was  received  with  enthusiasm,  and  a  call  on 
Muster  Hockle  followed.  The  carpenter  seemed  the  favor- 
ite performer.  "  Gie  's  th'  howl's  disaster,  Maester  Hockle," 
suggested  the  bailiff. 


THE  ASHEN  FAGOT.  41 

"  I  've  often  heard  my  gram  'mer  tell 

Of  a  peart  young  owl,  as  ael  the  day 
In  a  nook  ov  the  paason's  barn  did  dwell, 
In  hidlock  blinkin'  the  time  away. 

"  But,  zo  zoon  as  ever  the  zun  were  zet, 
A  poachin'  away  like  mad  went  he, 
And  once  his  desarvings  he  did  get, 
As  aal  o'  you  shall  presently  zee. 

"  A  vlod  vor  miles  auver  hill  and  dale, 

And  a  caddled  the  mice  in  many  a  vield; 
For  ael  o'  you  as  heers  this  tale 

Do  know  as  the  weakest  must  allus  yield. 

"  At  last  a  hunted  zo  vur  away 

That  the  zun  cum  peeping  auver  the  hills, 
And  the  birds  waked  up  and  did  un  espy, 
^V.nd  wur  ael  in  a  churm  az  um  whetted  then*  bills. 

" '  Gwo  at  un,  my  bwoys,'  the  missel-dresh  cries; 

'  A  vrightened  my  mate,  and  her  eggs  be  ael  addled'  j 

And  the  yuckle  did  scraam, '  Let  us  peck  out  his  eyes; 

Zich  a  girt  mouchin'  wosbird  deserves  to  be  caddled.' 

"  Thany  dreshed  un  long,  and  thaay  dreshed  un  zore ; 

Thaay  dreshed  un  and  tar  ael  the  dowl  vrom  his  yead, 
And  thaay  vollured  un  whoam  unto  the  barn  dwoor, 
And  ther'  thaay  left  un  purty  nigh  dead. 

MORAL. 

"  Now,  ael  you  young  men  as  loves  ramblin'  o'  night, 
Be  plazed  from  this  story  to  take  timely  warnin', 
Vor  ther'  med  be  them  as  ud  not  thenk  it  right 
If  you  chances  to  get  auvertuk  by  the  marnin'." 

Any  one  who  had  thought  of  looking  at  the  garden  win- 
dow during  Moses's  song  would  have  been  able  to  confirm 
the  story  of  little  Maggie  on  all  points,  except  as  to  the 
size  of  the  two  faces  which  peered  through  the  window- 
bars.  They  might  easily  have  fancied  that  the  fleshy  em- 
bodiments of  some  two  <  antagonist  Christmas  principles 
were  watching  the  Ashen  Fagot  supper  from  without ;  30 
marked  was  the  contrast  between  the  merry,  curious  look  of 


42  THOMAS  HUGHES. 

the  lighter,  and  the  painful  tension  of  muscles  and  hunger* 
ing  anxiety  of  the  darker  face. 

"  Lawk  !  do  'ee  look,  Miss  Mabel.  Zhure  as  vate  I  zeed 
zummat  at  th'  winder,**  whispered  Goody  Ockle,  the  car- 
penter's wife,  to  Miss  Kendrick. 

Mabel  glanced  at  the  window  a  little  nervously,  and 
thought  she  detected  figures  disappearing ;  but  her  father 
had  now  risen  to  speak  to  his  men,  and  she  turned  to  listen. 

"You  all  know,"  he  said,  with  his  homely  Wiltshire 
manner,  which  gave  him  such  a  hold  over  the  people  who 
lived  round  him,  — "  you  know  well,  after  all  these  years 
we  have  lived  side  by  side  as  good  neighbors,  how  much  I 
enjoy  meeting  you  here  at  such  times  as  this.  For  five  and 
twenty  years  now  we  have  met  here,  and  had  our  merry- 
makings, our  harvest-homes,  and  Ashen  Fagot  nights, 
through  bad  times  and  good  times.  Well,  we  Ve  had  good 
times  lately  in  field  and  fold,  and  I  hope  we  're  all  thankful 
for  them,  and  laying  by  something  against  hard  times,  which 
will  be  sure  to  come  back  again,  sooner  or  later,  —  remem- 
ber that.  When  they  come,  I  hope  we  shall  all  pull  togeth- 
er as  we  have  done  before ;  but  there  's  nothing  like  being  a 
little  before  the  world.  The  only  one  of  all  those  twenty- 
five  Ashen  Fagots  which  I  have  n't  seen  burnt  with  you 
was  the  last  one.  You  all  know  why  I  was  n't  with  you. 
It  had  pleased  God  to  send  me  a  very  fearful  trial  last  year, 
and  I  had  n't  the  heart  to  come  among  you  as  usual.  I 
know  how.  pleased  you  will  all  be  to  hear  that  I  have  had 
good  news  to-day  from  the  other  side  of  the  world,  —  good 
news  of  Master  John."  Here  his  voice  faltered  ;  and  when 
the  rough  murmurs  of  sympathy  had  subsided  a  little,  he 
changed  the  subject  abruptly,  and  went  on  :  "  It  has  always 
been  a  source  of  great  pride  to  me,  and  to  our  good  vicar, 
whom  we  all  love  as  an  old  friendf  though  he  lias  only  been 
with  us  four  years  or  so,"  (the  vicar,  who  had  just  entered, 
with  Mrs.  Kendrick  on  his  arm,  followed  by  his  daughter, 


THE  ASHEN  FAGOT.  43 

was  hailed  by  a  burst  of  applause,  and  stood  benevolently 
wondering  through  his  spectacles  what  It  could  be  all  about,) 
awe  are  very  proud  to  think  how  little  drunkenness  we 
have  in  this  parish.  I  'm  sure  you  '11  all  take  a  pride,  and 
you  particularly,  boys,"  (the  boys  at  the  end  of  the  table  be- 
came specially  attentive,)  "in  keeping  up  our, good  name. 
*  Merry  and  wise,'  is  our  Avenly  motto.  You  will  be  sure 
to  go  right  if  you  will  only  mind  your  mothers  and  wives, 
whom  I  am  always  delighted  to  welcome  here  with  you,  and 
who,  mind,  ought  always  to  be  with  you  at  such  times. 
Mind,  boys,  and  men  too,  there's  no  honest  mirth  where 
wives  and  daughters  can't  come.  There  's  one  more  word, 
which,  perhaps,  would  come  better  from  the  vicar  than  from 
me ;  but  as  he  '11  have  his  turn  to-morrow  in  the  pulpit,  I 
may  just  touch  upon  his  ground  now.  This  '  Ashen  Fagot ' 
night,  you  know,  is  the  night  of  peace  and  good-will  of  all 
the  year.  So,  if  any  of  you  have  had  fallings-out  with 
your  neighbors,  or  in  your  families,  now  's  the  time  to  set 
them  all  right.  Don't  let  the  last  bond  of  the  fagot  burst 
before  we  have  made  all  our  hearts  clean  and  whole  with 
all  men  this  Christmas  eve.  I  see  there  's  another  bond 
just  going  to  burst;  so  I  shall  only  wish  you  all  again  a 
very  merry  Christmas." 

The  bond  burst  almost  before  Mr.  Kendrick  sat  down,  but 
not  a  soul  in  the  room  noticed  it.  Every  eye  was  turned  to 
the  opposite  side  of  the  room.  Her  father's  look  as  he  spoke, 
and  some  of  his  words,  had  touched  Mabel  very  deeply.  She 
could  scarcely  keep  from  bursting  into  tears.  The  warmth 
of  the  great  fagot  and  the  smell  of  the  smoke  gave  her  a 
choking  feeling,  which  she  found  it  every  moment  more  diffi- 
cult to  struggle  against  So  she  had  glided  across  to  the 
opposite  door,  and,  opening  it  a  little,  stood  by  it  listening. 
Just  as  Mr.  Kendrick  finished,  she  stepped  out  for  a  breath 
of  fresh  air,  to  look  at  the  pure  moonlight,  and  recover  her- 
self, when  she  heard  her  name  whispered  close  by.  She 


44  THOMAS  HUGHES. 

turned  with  a  start,  and  the  next  moment  found  herself  in 
the  arms  of  a  man.  Altogether,  the  excitement  of  the  day 
and  the  evening,  with  this  last  shock  at  the  end  of  all,  proved 
too  much  for  her,  and  she  fairly  fainted  away. 

"  Good  God,  Herbert !  what  am  I  to  do  ?  Here 's  Mabel 
fainting ! " 

"  Why  the  deuce  did  you  frighten  her,  then  ?  Come, 
bring  her  in,"  and,  so  saying,  Herbert  pushed  the  door  open. 
The  astonishment  of  the  company  vented  itself  first  in  a  sort 
of  gasp  ;  Mr.  Kendrick  turned  sharply  round,  following  the 
universal  stare,  and  beheld  one  bearded  stranger  in  front, 
standing  on  his  kitchen  floor,  with  a  big  stick  in  his  hand, 
and  his  daughter  in  the  arms  of  another  just  behind  him. 
He  sprang  to  his  feet,  as  did  all  the  other  men,  but  not 
before  Mrs.  Kendrick  had  rushed  across  the  kitchen,  cry- 
ing,— 

"  Mabel,  dearest,  what  is  it  ?  What  have  you  done  to  my 
child  ?  " 

"  Mother,  dear  mother !  don't  you  know  me  ?  " 

"  Johnny  !  O  God,  is  it  Johnny  ?  "  and  now  the  mother 
was  on  his  neck,  sobbing  hysterically  ;  and  the  whole  of  the 
women  thronged  round  them,  and  murmurs  of  "  Master 
John  !  "  "  'T  is  the  young  squire,  zhure  enough  !  "  "  Massy, 
how  a  be  grawed,"  and  such  like,  passed  round  the  men. 

"  Had  n't  you  better  stand  back,  and  give  the  young  lady 
room  to  come  round  ?  "  said  Herbert. 

Mr.  Kendrick  now  pressed  forward  with  blanched  face 
through  the  crowd.  The  son  could  only  stretch  out  his 
hand,  with,  "  Dear  father,  you  have  forgiven  me  ?  " 

John  Kendrick  the  elder  seized  and  grasped  it  twice,  but 
could  not  speak.  He  was  not  the  man  to  give  way  in  public, 
but  his  bowels  yearned  to  his  son,  and  he  fled  away  to  his 
chamber  to  weep  there. 

Herbert  was  looking  on,  much  moved,  weighing  within 
himself  whether  he  could  be  of  any  use,  when  his  eye  caught 


THE  ASHEN  FAGOT.  45 

sight  of  the  vicar,  making  horrible  gulping  faces,  and  wiping 
his  spectacles.  He  looked  anxiously  at  him  for  a  moment, 
and  then,  springing  across,  seized  his  hand  and  began  shak- 
ing it  furiously. 

"  Why,  Mr.  Ward,  Mr.  Ward,  don't  you  know  me  ?  " 

u  Eh,  oh  !  what  ?  no  !  Who  are  you  ?  "  replied  the  vicar, 
shaking  away,  however,  with  great  good-will,  and  glad  to  find 
an  outlet  for  his  feelings. 

"  Why,  Herbert  Upton  of  course.     Who  should  I  be  ?  " 

"  What,  Herbert !  God  bless  me  !  No,  it  can't  be.  Yes, 
I  see.  My  dear  boy,  what  brings  you  here  ?  Where  have 
you  been  ?  Why  have  n't  you  written  ?  " 

"  So  I  have,  often,  some  years  back." 

"  What,  written  ?    I  Ve  never  had  the  letters." 

"  And  Neliy  ?  " 

"  O,  here  she  is,  somewhere.  Nelly,  where  are  you  ?  We 
often  talk  of  you  and  old  times." 

And  now  there  was  like  to  be  another  catastrophe  calling 
for  salts  and  cold  water,  as  Herbert  and  Nelly  met  again 
after  six  years'  parting.  He  had  left  her  a  slip  of  a  girl, 
and  found  her  a  fine  young  woman.  She  had  last  seen 
him  a  stripling  of  twenty,  and  he  stood  there  now  a  great- 
bearded  man. 

Readers  must  picture  to  themselves  the  rest  of  the  scene, 
—  how  the  troubled  groups  divided  themselves  again  ;  how 
the  Ashen  Fagot  revelry  went  on  in  the  kitchen,  every  bond 
that  had  burst  during  the  interruption  receiving  due  posthu- 
mous honors ;  how  the  reputation  of  Avenly  for  strict  sobri- 
ety was  somewhat  shaken  that  night,  though  nothing  was  said 
about  it  by  squire  or  vicar ;  how,  at  the  supper  in  the  parlor, 
to  which  no  one  but  Herbert  and  Dick  did  any  justice,  the 
story  of  Herbert's  meeting  with  Johnny  half-starved  in  the 
streets  of  Sydney,  and  taking  him  into  his  employment,  of 
their  defence  of  their  wagon  and  beasts  against  bushrangers, 
of  the  lucky  accident  which  enabled  Herbert  to  come  home, 


46  THOMAS  HUGHES. 

was  told  by  fits  and  starts  in  answer  to  a  thousand  ques- 
tions. 

It  was  almost  midnight  before  they  broke  up,  and  then 
Mr.  Kendrick  asked  the  vicar  to  read  to  them,  and  took 
down  his  big  Bible.  And  the  old  vicar,  peering  through  his 
spectacles,  turned  to  the  15th  chapter  of  St.  Luke,  and  read 
it ;  and  as  the  well-known  words  were  heard  again,  there 
was  no  dry  eye  in  the  parlor,  except  the  incorrigible  Dick's. 

Herbert  Upton  escorted  the  vicar  and  Nelly  home ;  and 
on  the  next  Sunday  the  banns  of  Herbert  Upton,  of  New 
South  Wales,  and  Eleanor  Ward,  of  Avenly,  were  duly 
published  for  the  first  time  in  the  parish  church.  Herbert 
established  himself  for  the  winter  at  the  vicarage,  with  three 
good  hunters,  which  stood  in  Mr.  Kendrick's  capacious  sta- 
bles. The  worthy  villagers  of  Avenly  will  long  remember 
and  talk  over  the  Ashen  Fagot  night  when  the  young 
squire  came  home  again. 


CONTENTMENT. 

BY  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 

"  Man  wants  but  little  here  belmr.w 

LITTLE  I  ask  ;  my  wants  are  few ; 
I  only  wish  a  hut  of  stone, 
(A  very  plain  brown  stone  will  do,) 
That  I  may  call  my  own ;  — 
And  close  at  hand  is  such  a  one, 
In  yonder  street  that  fronts  the  sun. 

Plain  food  is  quite  enough  for  me ; 

Three  courses  are  as  good  as  ten ;  — 
If  Nature  can  subsist  on  three, 

Thank  Heaven  for  three.    Amen  I 
I  always  thought  cold  victual  nice  ;  — 
My  choice  would  be  vanilla-ice. 

I  care  not  much  for  gold  or  land  ;  — 

Give  me  a  mortgage  here  and  there,  — 
Some  good  bank-stock,  —  some  note  of  hand, 

Or  trifling  railroad  share,  — 
I  only  ask  that  Fortune  send 
A  little  more  than  I  shall  spend. 

Honors  are  silly  toys,  I  know, 
And  titles  are  but  empty  names  ; 


48  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 

I  would,  perhaps,  be  Plenipo,  — 
But  only  near  St.  James  ; 
I  'm  very  sure  I  should  not  care 
To  fill  our  Gubernator's  chair. 

Jewels  are  bawbles  ;  't  is  a  sin 

To  care  for  such  unfruitful  things  ;  — 
One  good-sized  diamond  in  a  pin,  — 

Some,  not  so  large,  in  rings,  — 
A  ruby,  and  a  pearl,  or  so, 
Will  do  for  me  ;  —  I  laugh  at  show. 

My  dames  should  dress  in  cheap  attire ; 

(Good,  heavy  silks  are  never  dear ;)  — 
I  own  perhaps  I  might  desire 

Some  shawls  of  true  Cashmere,  — 
Some  marrowy  crapes  of  China  silk, 
Like  wrinkled  skins  on  scalded  milk. 

I  would  not  have  the  horse  I  drive 

So  fast  that  folks  must  stop  and  stare ; 
An  easy  gait  —  two,  forty-five  — 

Suits  me  ;  I  do  not  care  ;  — 
Perhaps,  for  just  a  single  spurt, 
Some  seconds  less  would  do  no  hurt. 

Of  pictures,  I  should  like  to  own 

Titians  and  Raphaels  three  or  four,  — - 
I  love  so  much  their  style  and  tone,  — 

One  Turner,  and  no  more, 
(A  landscape,  —  foreground  golden  dirt,  — 
The  sunshine  painted  with  a  squirt.) 

Of  books  but  few,  —  some  fifty  score 
For  daily  use,  and  bound  for  wear ; 


CONTENTMENT.  49 

The  rest  upon  an  upper  floor ;  — 

Some  little  luxury  there 
Of  red  morocco's  gilded  gleam, 
And  vellum  rich  as  country  cream. 

• 
Busts,  cameos,  gems,  —  such  tilings  as  these, 

Which  others  often  show  fci  prUt, 
/value  for  their  power  to  please, 

And  selfish  churls  deride  ;  — 
One  Stradivarius,  I  confess, 
Two  Meerschaums,  I  would  fain  possess. 

Wealth's  wasteful  tricks  I  will  not  learn, 
*Nor  ape  the  glittering  upstart  fool ;  — 
Shall  not  carved  tables  serve  my  turn, 

But  all  must  be  of  buhl  ? 
Give  grasping  pomp  its  double  share,  — 
I  ask  but  one  recumbent  chair. 

Thus  humble  let  me  live  and  die, 

Nor  long  for  Midas'  golden  touch  ; 
If  Heaven  more  generous  gifts  deny, 
I  shall  not  miss  them  much,  — 
Too  grateful  for  the  blessing  lent 
Of  simple  tastes  and  mind  content ! 


LITTLE  SCHOLARS 

BY  ANNA  THACKERAY. 


morning,  as  I  was  walking  up  a  street 
1  in  Pimlico,  I  came  upon  a  crowd  of  little  persons  issu- 
ing from  a  narrow  alley.  Ever  so  many  little  people  there 
were  streaming  through  a  wicket ;  running  children,  shouting 
children,  loitering  children,  chattering  children,  and  children 
spinning  tops  by  the  way,  so  that  the  whole  street  was 
awakened  by  the  pleasant  childish  clatter.  As  I  stand  for 
an  instant  to  see  the  procession  go  by,  one  little  girl  pops 
me  an  impromptu  courtesy,  at  which  another  from  a  distant 
quarter,  not  behindhand  in  politeness,  pops  me  another ;  and 
presently  quite  an  irregular  little  volley  of  courtesyings  goes 
off  in  every  direction.  Then  I  blandly  inquire  if  school  is 
over  ?  and  if  there  is  anybody  left  in  the  house  ?  A  little 
brown-eyes  nods  her  head,  and  says,  "  There  's  a  great  many 
people  left  in  the  house."  And  so  there  are,  sure  enough, 
as  I  find  when  I  get  in. 

Down  a  narrow  yard,  with  the  workshops  on  one  side  and 
the  schools  on  .the  other,  in  at  a  little  door  which  leads  into 
a  big  room  where  there  are  rafters,  maps  hanging  on  the 
walls,  and  remarks  in  immense  letters,  such  as,  "  COFFEE 
is  GOOD  FOR  MY  BREAKFAST,"  and  pictures  of  useful 
things,  with  the  well-thumbed  .story  underneath  ;  a  stove  in 
the  middle  of  the  room ;  a  paper  hangh  fe  up  on  the  door 
with  the  names  of  the  teachers ;  and  everywhere  wooden 


LITTLE  SCHOLARS.  51 

oenches  and  tables,  made  low  and  small  for  little  legs  and 
arms. 

Well,  the  school-room  is  quite  empty  and  silent  now,  and 
the  little  turmoil  has  poured  eagerly  out  at  the  door.  It  is 
twelve  o'clock,  the  sun  is  shining  in  the  court,  and  some- 
thing better  than  schooling  is  going  on  in  the  kitchen  yon- 
der. Who  cares  now  where  coffee  comes  from  ?  or  which 
are  the  chief  cities  in  Europe  ?  or  in  what  -year  Stephen 
came  to  the  throne  ?  For  is  not  twelve  o'clock  dinner-time 
with  all  sensible  people  ?  and  what  periods  of  history,  what 
future  aspirations,  what  distant  events  are  as  important  to 
us  —  grown-up  folks,  and  children,  too  —  as  this  pleasant 
daily  recurring  one  ? 

The  kiod,  motherly  schoolmistress  who  brought  me  in, 
tells  me  that  for  a  shilling  half  a  dozen  little  boys  and  girls 
can  be  treated  to  a  wholesome  meal.  I  wonder  if  it  smells 
as  good  to  them  as  it  does  to  me,  when  I  pull  my  shilling 
out  of  my  pocket.  The  food  costs  more  than  twopence 
but  there  is  a  fund  to  which  people  subscribe,  and  with  ifc. 
help  the  kitchen  cooks  all  through  the  winter  months. 

All  the  children  seem  very  fond  of  the  good  Mrs.  K . 

As  we  leave  the  school-room,  one  little  tiling  comes  up  cry- 
ing, and  clinging  to  her,  "  A  boy  has  been  and  'it  me ! " 
But  when  the  mistress  says,  "  Well,  never  mind,  you  shall 
have  your  dinner,"  the  child  is  instantly  consoled ;  "  and 
you,  and  you,  and  you,"  she  continues ;  but  this  selection  is 
too  heart-rending;  and  with  the  help  of  another  lucky 
shilling,  nobody  present  is  left  out.  I  remember  particularly 
a  lank  child,  with  great  black  eyes  and  fuzzy  hair,  and  a 
pinched  gray  face,  who  stood  leaning  against  a  wall  ii^the 
sun :  once,  in  the  Pontine  Marshes,  years  ago,  I  remember 
seeing  such  another  figure.  "That  poor  thing  is  seven- 
teen," says  Mrs.  K .  "  She  sometimes  loiters  here  all 

day  long ;  she  has  no  mother :  and  she  often  comes  and  tells 
me  her  father  is  so  drunk  she  dare  not  go  home.  I  always 
give  her  a  dinner  when  I  can.  This  is  the  kitchen." 


52  ANNA  THACKERAY. 

The  kitchen  is  a  delightful  little  clean-scrubbed  place,  with 
rice  pudding  baking  in  the  oven,  and  a  young  mistress,  and 
a  big  girl,  busy  bringing  in  great  caldrons  full  of  the  mutton- 
broth  I  have  been  scenting  all  this  time.  It  is  a  fresh, 
honest,  hungry  smell,  quite  different  from  that  unwholesome 
compound  of  fiy  and  sauce,  and  hot,  pungent  spice,  and  stew 
and  mess,  which  comes  steaming  up,  some  seven  hours  later, 
into  our  dining-rooms,  from  the  reeking  kitchens  below. 
Here  a  poor  woman  is  waiting,  with  a  jug  and  a  round- 
eyed  baby.  The  mistress  tells  me  the  people  in  the  neigh- 
borhood are  too  glad  to  buy  what  is  left  of  the  children's 

dinner.     "  Look  what  good  stuff  it  is,"  says  Mrs.  K , 

and  she  shows  me  a  bowl  full  of  the  jelly  to  which  it  turns 
when  cold.  As  the  two  girls  come  stepping  through  the 
sunny  doorway,  with  the  smoking  jar  between  them,  I 
think  Mr.  Millais  might  make  a  pretty  picture  of  the  little 
scene  ;  but  my  attention  is  suddenly  distracted  by  the  round- 
eyed  baby,  who  is  peering  down  into  the  great  soup-jug  with 
such  wide,  wide-open  eyes,  and  little  hands  outstretched, 
such  an  eager,  happy  face,  that  it  almost  made  one  laugh, 
and  cry  too,  to  see.  The  baby  must  be  a  favorite,  for  he  is 
served,  and  goes  off  in  his  mother's  arms,  keeping  vigilant 
watch  over  the  jug,  while  four  or  five  other  jugs  and  women 
are  waiting  still  in  the  next  room.  Then  into  rows  of  little 
yellow  basins  our  mistress  pours  the  broth,  and  we  now  go 
in  to  see  the  company  in  the  dining-hall,  waiting  for  its 
banquet.  Ah  me !  but  it  is  a  pleasanter  sight  to  see  than 
any  company  in  all  the  land.  Somehow,  as  the  children 
say  grace,  I  feel  as  if  there  was  indeed  a  blessing  on  the 
foo<!^  a  blessing  which  brings  color  into  these  wan  cheeks, 
and  strength  and  warmth  into  these  wasted  little  limbs. 
Meanwhile  the  expectant  company  is  growing  rather  im- 
patient, and  is  battering  the  benches  with  its  spoons,  and 
tapping  neighboring  heads  as  well.  There  goes  a  little 
guest,  scrambling  from  his  place  across  the  room  and  back 


LITTLE  SCHOLARS.  53 

again.  So  many  are  here  to-day,  that  they  have  not  all  got 
seats.  I  see  the  wan  girl  still  standing  against  the  wall,  and 
there  is  her  brother,  —  a  sociable  little  fellow,  all  dressed 
in  corduroys,  —  who  is  making  funny  faces  at  me  across  the 
room,  at  which  some  other  little  boys  burst  out  laughing. 
But  the  infants  on  the  dolls'-benches.  at  the  other  end,  are 
the  best  fun.  There  they  are  —  three,  four,  five  years  old  — 
whispering  and  ohattering,  and  tumbling  over  one  another. 
Sometimes  one  infant  falls  suddenly  forward,  with  its  nose 
upon  the  table,  and  stops  there  quite  contentedly;  some- 
times another  disappears  entirely  under  the  legs,  and  is 
tugged  up  by  its  neighbors.  A  certain  number  of  the  in- 
fants have  their  dinner  every  day,  the  mistress  tells  me. 

Mrs. *  has  said  so,  and  hers  is  the  kind  hand  which  has 

provided  for  all  these  young  ones  ;  while  a  same  kind  heart 
has  schemed  how  to  shelter,  to  feed,  to  clothe,  to  teach  the 
greatest  number  of  these  hungry  and  cold  and  neglected 
little  children. 

As  I  am  replying  to  the  advances  of  my  young  friend  in 
the  corduroys,  I  suddenly  hear  a  cry  of  "  Ooo  !  ooo  !  ooo !  — 
noo  spoons,  —  noo  spoons,  —  ooo  !  ooo  !  ooo  !  "  and  all  the 
little  hands  stretch  out  eagerly  as  one  of  the  big  girls  goes 
by  with  a  paper  of  shining  metal  spoons.  By  this  time  the 
basins  of  soup  are  travelling  round,  with  hunches  of  home- 
made bread.  "  The  infants  are  to  have  pudding  first,"  says 
the  mistress,  coming  forward ;  and  in  a  few  minutes  more 
all  the  little  birds  are  busy  pecking  at  their  bread  and  pud- 
ding, of  which  they  take  up  very  small  mouthfuls,  in  very 
big  spoons,  and  let  a  good  deal  slobber  down  over  their 
pinafores. 

One  little  curly-haired  boy,  with  a  very  grave  face,  was 
eating  pudding  very  slowly  and  solemnly;  so  I  said  to 
him,  — 

"  Do  you  like  pudding  best  ?  " 

Little  Boy.  « Isss." 


54  ANNA  THACKERAY. 

"  And  can  you  read  ?  " 

Little  Boy.  "  Isss." 

"  And  write  ?  " 

Little  Boy.  "  Isss." 

"  And  have  you  got  a  sister  ?  " 

Little  Boy.  "  Isss." 

u  And  does  she  wash  your  face  so  nicely  ?  " 

Little  Boy,  extra  solemn.  "  No,  see  is  wite  a  little  girl 
see  is  on'y  four  year  old." 

"  And  how  old  are  you  ?  " 

Little  Boy,  with  great  dignity.  "  /  am  fi'  year  old." 

Then  he  told  me  Mrs.  Willis  "  wassed"  his  face,  and 'he 
brought  his  sister  to  school. 

"  Where  is  your  sister  ?  "  says  the  mistress,  going  by. 

But  four-years  was  not  forthcoming. 

"  I  s'pose  see  has  wait  home,"  says  the  child,  and  goes  on 
with  his  pudding. 

This  little  pair  are  orphans  out  of  the  workhouse,  Mrs. 

K told  me.     But  somebody  pays  Mrs.  Willis  for  their 

keep. 

There  was  another  funny  little  thing,  very,  small,  sitting 
between  two  bigger  boys,  to  whom  I  said,  — 

"  Are  you  a  little  boy  or  a  little  girl  ?  " 

"  Little  dirl,"  says  this  baby,  quite  confidently. 

"  No,  you  ain't,"  cries  the  left-hand  neighbor,  very  much 
excited. 

"  Yes,  she  is,"  says  right-hand  neighbor. 

And  then  three  or  four  more  join  in,  each  taking  a  differ- 
ent view  of  the  question.  All  this  time  corduroys  is  still 
grinning  and  making  faces  in  his  corner.  I  admire  his  brass 
buttons,  upon  which  three  or  four  more  children  instantly 
crowd  round  to  look  at  them.  One  is  a  poor  little  deformed 
fellow,  to  whom  buttons  would  be  of  very  little  use.  He  is 
in  quite  worn  and  ragged  clothes  :  he  looks  as  pale  and  thin 
almost  as  that  poor  girl  I  first  noticed  He  has  no  mother 


LITTLE  SCHOLARS.  55 

he  and  his  brother  live  alone  with  their  father,  who  is  out  all 
day,  and  the  children  have  to  do  everything  for  themselves. 
The  young  ones  here  who  have  no  mothers  seem  by  far  the 
worst  off.  This  little  deformed  boy,  poor  as  he  is,  finds 
something  to  give  away.  Presently  I  see  him  scrambling 
over  the  backs  of  the  others,  and  feeding  them  with  small 
shreds  of  meat,  which  he  takes  out  of  his  soup  with  his 
grubby  little  fingers,  and  which  one  little  boy,  called  Thomp- 
son, is  eating  with  immense  relish.  Mrs.  K here  comes 

up,  and  says  that  those  who  are  hungry  are  to  have  some 
more.  Thompson  has  some  more,  and  so  does  another  rosy 
little  fellow ;  but  the  others  have  hardly  finished  what  was 
first  given  them,  and  the  veiy  little  ones  send  off  their  pud- 
ding half  e^aten,  and  ask  for  soup.  The  mistresses  here  are 
quite  touchingly  kind  and  thoughtful.  I  did  not  hear  a  sharp 
tone.  All  the  children  seemed  at  home,  and  happy,  and 
gently  dealt  with.  However  cruelly  want  and  care  and 
harshness  haunt  their  own  homes,  here  at  least  there  are 
only  kind  words  and  comfort  for  these  poor  little  pilgrims 

whose  toil  has  begun  so  early.     Mrs. told  me  once, 

that  often  in  winter  time  these  children  come  barefooted 
through  the  snow,  and  so  cold  and  hungry  that  they  have 
fallen  off  their  seats  half  fainting.  We  may  be  sure  that 
such  little  sufferers  —  thanks  to  these  Good  Samaritans !  — 
will  be  tenderly  picked  up  and  cared  for.  But,  I  wonder, 
must  there  always  be  children  in  the  world  hungry  and  de- 
serted ?  and  will  there  never,  out  of  all  the  abundance  of  the 
earth,  be  enough  to  spare  to  content  those  who  want  so  little 
to  make  them  happy  ? 

Mrs. came  in  while  I  was  still  at  the  school,  and 

took  me  over  the  workshops  where  the  elder  boys  learn  to 
carpenter  and  carve.     Scores  of  drawing-rooms  in  Belgravia 
are  bristling  with  the  pretty  little  tables  and  ornaments  these 
young  artificers  design.     A  young  man  with  a  scrip  turaJ    ' 
name  superintends  the  work ;  the  boys  are  paid  for  their 


56  ANNA  THACKERAY. 

labor,  and  send  out  red  velvet  and  twisted  legs,  and  wood 
ornamented  in  a  hundred  devices.  There  is  an  industrial 
class  for  girls,  too.  The  best  and  oldest  are  taken  in,  and 
taught  housework,  and  kitchen-work,  and  sewing.  Even  the 
fathers  and  mothers  come  in  for  a  share  of  the  good  things, 
and  are  invited  to  tea  sometimes,  and  amused  in  the  evening 
with  magic-lanterns,  and  conjurers,  and  lecturings.  I  do  not 
dwell  at  greater  length  upon  the  industrial  part  of  these 
schools,  because  I  want  to  speak  of  another  very  similar 
institution  I  went  to  see  another  day. 

On  my  way  thither  I  had  occasion  to  go  through  an  old 
churchyard,  full  of  graves  and  sunshine ;  a  quaint  old  sub- 
urban place,  with  tree-tops  and  old  brick  houses  all  round 
about,  and  ancient  windows  looking  down  upon  the  quiet 
tombstones.  Some  children  were  playing  among  the  graves, 
and  two  rosy  little  girls  in  big  bonnets  were  sitting  demurely 
on  a  stone,  and  grasping  two  babies  that  were  placidly  bask- 
ing in  the  sun.  The  little  girls  look  up  and  grin  as  I  go  by. 
I  would  ask  them  the  way,  only  I  know  they  won't  answer, 
and  so  I  go  on,  out  at  an  old  iron  gate,  with  a  swinging 
lamp,  up  "  Church  Walk "  (so  it  is  written),  and  along  a 
trim  little  terrace,  to  where  a  maid-of-all-work  is  scrubbing 

at  her  steps.     When  I  ask  the  damsel  my  way  to  B 

Street,  she  says  she  "  do-ant  know  B Street,  but  there 's 

Little  Davis  Street  round  the  corner  " ;  and  when  I  say  I  'm 
afraid  Little  Davis  Street  is  no  good  to  me,  she  says,  "  'T  ain't 
Gunter's  Row,  is  it  ?  "  So  I  go  off  in  despair,  and  after  some 
minutes  of  brisk  walking  find  myself  turning  up  the  trim 
little  terrace  again,  where  the  maid-of-all-work  is  still  busy 
at  her  steps.  This  time,  as  we  have  a  sort  of  acquaint- 
ance, I  tell  her  that  I  am  looking  for  a  house  where  girls 
are  taken  in,  and  educated,  and  taught  to  be  housemaids. 
At  which  confidence  she  brightens  up,  and  says,  "  There 's  a 
'ouse  round  the-ar  with  somethink  wrote  on  the  door,  jest 
where  the  little  boy's  a-trundlin'  of  his  'oop." 


LITTLE  SCHOLARS.  57 

And  so,  sure  enough,  following  the  hoop,  I  come  to  an 
old-fashioned  house  in  a  court-yard,  and  ring  at  a  wooden 
door,  on  which  "  Girls'  Industrial  Schools  "  is  painted  up  in 
white  letters. 

A  little  industrious  girl,  in  a  lilac  pinafore,  let  me  in,  with 
a  courtesy. 

"  May  I  come  in  and  see  the  place  ?  "  say  I. 

"  Please,  yes,"  says  she  (another  courtesy).  "  Please,  what 
name?  please  walk  this  way." 

"  This  way "  leads  through  the  court,  where  clothes  are 
hanging  on  lines,  into  a  little  office-room,  where  my  guide 
leaves  me,  with  yet  another  little  courtesy.  In  a  minute  the 
mistress  comes  out  from  the  inner  room.  She  is  a  kind, 
smiling  young  woman,  with  a  fresh  face  and  a  pleasant  man- 
ner. She  takes  me  in,  and  I  see  a  dozen  more  girls  in  lilac 
pinafores  reading  round  a  deal  table.  They  look  mostly 
about  thirteen  or  fourteen  years  old.  I  ask  if  this  is  all  the 
school. 

"  Xo,  not  all,"  the  mistress  says,  counting ;  "  some  are  in 
the  laundry,  and  some  are  not  at  home.  When  they  are 
old  enough,  they  go  out  into  the  neighborhood  to  help  to 
wash,  or  cook,  or  what  not.  Go  on,  girls ! "  and  the  girls 
instantly  begin  to  read  again,  and  the  mistress,  opening  a 
door,  brings  us  out  into  the  passage.  "  We  have  room  for 
twenty-two,"  says  the  little  mistress ;  "  and  we  dress  them, 
and  feed  them,  and  teach  them  as  well  as  we  can.  On 
wctk-clays  they  wear  anything  we  can  find  for  them,  but 
they  have  very  nice  frocks  on  Sundays.  I  never  leave 
them;  I  sit  with  them,  and  sleep  among  them,  and  walk 
with  them  ;  they  are  always  friendly  and  affectionate  to  me 
and  among  themselves,  and  are  very  good  companions." 

In  answer  to  my  questions,  she  said  that  most  of  the 
children  were  put  in  by  friends  who  paid  half  a  crown  a 
week  for  them,  sometimes  the  parents  themselves,  but  they 
could  rarely  afford  it  That  besides  this,  and  what  the  girla 


58  ANNA   THACKERAY. 

could  earn,  £  200  a  year  is  required  for  the  rent  of  the 
house  and  expenses.  "  It  has  always  been  made  up,"  says 
the  mistress,  "  but  we  can't  help  being  very  anxious  at  times, 
as  we  have  nothing  certain,  nor  any  regular  subscriptions. 
Won't  you  see  the  laundry  ?  "  she  adds,  opening  a  door. 

In  the  laundry  is  a  steam,  and  a  clatter,  and  irons,  and 
linen,  and  a  little  mangle,  turned  by  two  little  girls,  while 
two  or  three  more  are  busy  ironing  under  the  superintend- 
ence of  a-  washerwoman  with  tucked-up  sleeves ;  piles  of 
shirt-collars  and  handkerchiefs  and  linen  are  lying  on  the 
shelves,  shirts  and  clothes  are  hanging  on  lines  across  the 
room.  The  little  girls  don't  stop,  but  go  on  busily. 

"  Where  is  Mary  Anne  ?  "  says  the  mistress,  with  a  little 
conscious  pride. 

"  There  she  is,  mum,"  says  the  washerwoman,  and  Mary 
Anne  steps  out,  blushing,  from  behind  the  mangle,  with  a 
hot  iron  in  her  hand  and  a  hanging  head. 

"Mary  Anne  is  our  chief  laundry-maid,"  says  the  mis- 
tress, as  we  came  out  into  the  hall  again.  "  For  the  first 
year  I  could  make  nothing  of  her ;  she  was  miserable  in  the 
kitchen,  she  couldn't  bear  housework,  she  wouldn't  learn 
her  lessons.  In  fact,  I  was  quite  unhappy  about  her,  till 
one  day  I  set  her  to  ironing ;  she  took  to  it  instantly,  and 
has  been  quite  cheerful  and  busy  ever  since." 

So  leaving  Maiy  Anne  to  her  vocation  in  life,  we  went 
jp-stairs  to  the  dormitories.  The  first  floor  is  let  to  a  lady, 
and  one  of  the  girls  is  chosen  to  wait  upon  her ;  the  second 
floor  is  where  they  sleep,  in  fresh  light  rooms  with  open 
windows  and  sweet  spring  breezes  blowing  in  across  gar- 
dens and  court-yards.  The  place  was  delightfully  trim  and 
fresh  and  peaceful;  the  little  gray-coated  beds  stood  in 
rows,  with  a  basket  at  the  foot  of  each,  and  texts  were 
hanging  up  on  the  wall.  In  the  next  room  stood  a  ward- 
robe full  of  the  girls'  Sunday  clothes,  of  which  one  of  them 
keeps  the  key ;  after  this  came  the  mistress's  own  room,  as 
fresh  and  light  and  well  kept  as  the  rest. 


LITTLE  SCHOLARS.  59 

These  little  maidens  scrub  and  cook  and  wash  and  sew. 
I?hey  make  broth  for  the  poor,  and  puddings.  They  are 
taught  to  read  and  write  and  count,  and  they  learn  geogra- 
phy and  history  as  well.  Many  of  them  come  from  dark, 
unwholesome  alleys  in  the  neighborhood,  —  from  a  dreary 
country  of  dirt  and  crime  and  foul  talk.  In  this  little  con- 
vent all  is  fresh  and  pure,  and  the  sunshine  pours  in  at 
every  window.  I  don't  know  that  the  life  is  very  exciting 
there,  or  that  the  days  spent  at  the  mangle,  or  round  the 
deal  table,  can  be  very  stirring  ones.  But  surely  they  are 
well  spent,  learning  useful  arts,  and  order  and  modesty  and 
cleanliness.  Think  of  the  cellars  and  slums  from  which 
these  children  come,  and  of  the  quiet  little  haven  where 
they  are  fitted  for  the  struggle  of  life,  and  are  taught  to  be 
good  and  industrious  and  sober  and  honest.  It  is  only  for 
a  year  or  two,  and  then  they  will  go  out  into  the  world 
again,  —  into  a  world,  indeed,  of  which  we  know  but  little, 
—  a  world  of  cooks  and  kitchen-maids  and  general  servants. 
I  daresay  these  little  industrious  girls,  sitting  round  that 
table  and  spelling  out  the  Gospel  of  St.  John  this  sunny 
afternoon,  are  longing  and  wistfully  thinking  about  that 
wondrous  coming  time.  Meanwhile  the  quiet  hour  goes  by. 
I  say  farewell  to  the  kind,  smiling  mistress ;  Mary  Anne  is 
still  busy  among  her  irons;  I  hear  the  mangle  click  as  I 
pass,  and  the  wooden  door  opens  to  let  me  out. 

In  another  old  house,  standing  in  a  deserted  old  square 
near  the  city,  there  is  a  school  which  interested  me  as 
much  as  any  of  those  I  have  come  across,  —  a  school  :or 
little  Jewish  boys  and  girls.  We  find  a  tranquil,  roomy  eld 
house,  with  light  windows  looking  out  into  the  quiet  square 
with  its  ancient  garden  ;  a  carved  staircase ;  a  little  hall 
paved  with  black  and  white  mosaic,  whence  two  doors  lead 
respectively  to  the  Boys'  and  Girls'  schools.  Presently  a 
little  girl  unlocks  one  of  these  doors,  and  runs  up  before  us 
into  the  school-room,  —  a  long,  well-lighted  room  full  of  other 


60  ANNA  THACKERAY. 

little  girls  busy  at  their  desks  :  little  Hebrew  maidens  with 
Oriental  faces,  who  look  up  at  us  as  we  come  in.  This  is 

always  rather  an  alarming  moment ;  but  Dr. ,  who  knows 

the  children,  comes  kindly  to  our  help,  and  begins  to  tell  us 
about  the  school.  "  It  is  an  experiment,"  he  says,  "  and 
one  which  has  answered  admirably  well.  Any  children  are 
admitted,  Christians  as  well  as  Jews ;  and  none  come  with- 
out paying  something  every  Aveek,  twopence  or  threepence, 
as  they  can  afford,  for  many  of  them  belong  to  the  very 
poorest  of  the  Jewish  community.  They  receive  a  very 
high  class  of  education."  (When  I  presently  see  what  they 
are  doing,  and  hear  the  questions  they  can  answer,  I  begin 
to  feel  a  very  great  respect  for  these  little  bits  of  girls  in 
pinafores,  and  for  the  people  who  are  experimenting  on 
them.)  "  But  the  chief  aim  of  the  school  is  to  teach 
them  to  help  themselves,  and  to  inculcate  an  honest  self- 
dependence  and  independence."  And,  indeed,  as  I  look  at 
them,  I  cannot  but  be  struck  with  a  certain  air  of  re- 
spectability and  uprightness  among  these  little  creatures, 
as  they  sit  there,  so  self-possessed,  keen-eyed,  well-mannered. 
"  Could  you  give  them  a  parsing  lesson  ? "  the  doctor  asks 
the  schoolmistress,  who  shakes  her  head,  and  says  it  is  their 
day  for  arithmetic,  and  she  may  not  interrupt  the  order  of 
their  studies ;  but  that  they  may  answer  any  questions  the 
doctor  likes  to  put  to  them. 

Quite  little  tlu'ngs,  with  their  hair  in  curls,  can  tell  you 
about  tons  and  hundredweights,  and  how  many  horses  it 
would  take  to  draw  a  ton,  and  how  many  little  girls  to  draw 
two  thirds  of  a  ton,  if  so  many  little  girls  went  to  a  horse ; 
and  if  a  horse  were  added,  or  a  horse  taken  away,  or  two 
eighths  of  the  little  girls,  or  three  fourths  of  the  horse,  or 
one  sixth  of  the  ton,  —  until  the  room  begins  to  spin 
breathlessly  round  and  round,  and  I  am  left  ever  so  far 
behindhand. 

"Is  avoirdupois  an  English  word?"     Up   goes  a  little 


LITTLE  SCHOLARS.  61 

hand,  with  fingers  working  eagerly,  and  a  pretty  little 
creature,  wLh  long  black  hair  and  a  necklace,  cries  out  that 
it  is  French,  and  means,  have  weight. 

Then  the  doctor  asks  about  early  English  history,  and  the 
hands  still  go  up,  and  they  know  all  about  it ;  and  so  they 
do  about  civilization,  and  despotism,  and  charters,  and  Picts 
and  Scots,  and  dynasties,  and  early  lawgivers,  and  coloniza- 
tion, and  reformation. 

"Who  was  Martin  Luther?  Why  did  he  leave  the 
Catholic  Church  ?  What  were  indulgences  ?  " 

"  You  gave  the  Pope  lots  of  money,  sir,  and  he  gave  you 
dispensations."  This  was  from  our  little  portress. 

There  was  another  little  shrimp  of  a  thing,  with  wonder- 
ful,  long-sJit,  flashing  eyes,  who  could  answer  anything 
almost,  and  whom  the  other  little  girls  accordingly  brought 
forward  in  triumph  from  a  back  row. 

"  Give  me  an  instance  of  a  free  country  ?  "  asks  the  tired 
questioner. 

"  England,  sir ! "  cry  the  little  girls  in  a  shout. 

"  And  now  of  a  country  which  is  not  free." 

"America,"  cry  two  little  voices;  and  then  one  adds, 
"  Because  there  are  slaves,  sir."  "  And  France,"  says  a 
third ;  "  and  we  have  seen  the  emperor  in  the  picture- 
shops." 

As  I  listen  to  them,  I  cannot  help  wishing  that  many  of 
our  little  Christians  were  taught  to  be  as  independent  and 
self-respecting  in  their  dealings  with  the  grown-up  people 
who  come  to  look  at  them.  One  would  fancy  that  servility 
was  a  sacred  institution,  we  cling  to  it  so  fondly.  We  seem 
to  expect  an  absurd  amount  of  respect  from  our  inferiors  ; 
we  are  ready  to  pay  back  just  as  much  to  those  above  us  in 
station  :  and  hence  I  think,  notwithstanding  all  the  kindness 
of  heart,  all  the  well-meant  and  well-spent  exertion  we  see 
in  the  world,  there  is  often  too  great  an  inequality  between 
those  who  teach  and  those  who  would  learn,  those  who  give 
and  those  whose  harder  part  it  is  to  receive. 


62  ANNA  THACKERAY. 

We  were  quite  sorry  at  last  when  the  doctor  made  a  little 
bow,  and  said,  "  Good  morning,  young  ladies,"  quite  politely, 
to  his  pupils.  It  was  too  late  to  stop  and  talk  to  the  little 
boys  down  below,  but  we  went  for  a  minute  into  an  inner 
room  out  of  the  large  boys'  school-room,  and  there  we  found 
half  a  dozen  little  men,  with  their  hats  on  their  heads,  sitting 
on  their  benches,  reading  the  Psalms  in  Hebrew ;  and  so  we 
stood,  for  this  minute  before  we  came  away,  listening  to 
David's  words  spoken  in  David's  tongue,  and  ringing  rather 
sadly  in  the  boys'  touching  childish  voice. 

But  this  is  not  by  any  means  the  principal  school  which 
the  Jews  have  established  in  London.  Deep  in  the  heart 
of  the  city, — beyond  St.  Paul's,  —  beyond  the  Cattle 
Market,  with  its  countless  pens,  —  beyond  Finsbury  Square, 
and  the  narrow  Barbican,  —  travelling  on  through  a  dirty, 
close,  thickly  peopled  region,  you  come  to  Bell  Lane,  in 
Spitalfields.  And  here  you  may  step  in  at  a  door  and  sud- 
denly find  yourself  in  a  wonderful  country,  in  the  midst  of 
an  unknown  people,  in  a  great  hall  sounding  with  the  voices 
of  hundreds  of  Jewish  children.  I  know  not  if  it  is  always 
so,  or  if  this  great  assemblage  is  only  temporary,  during  the 
preparation  for  the  Passover,  but  all  along  the  sides  of  this 
great  room  were  curtained  divisions,  and  classes  sitting 
divided,  busy  at  their  tasks,  and  children  upon  children  as 
far  as  you  could  see ;  and  somehow  as  you  look  you  almost 
see,  not  these  children  only,  but  their  forefathers,  the  Chil- 
dren of  Israel,  camping  in  their  tents,  as  they  camped  at 
Succoth,  when  they  fled  out  of  the  land  of  Egypt  and  the 
house  of  bondage.  Some  of  these  here  present  to-day  are 
still  flying  from  the  house  of  bondage ;  many  of  them  are 
the  children  of  Poles  and  Russians  and  Hungarians,  who 
have  escaped  over  here  to  avoid  conscription,  and  who  arrive 
destitute  and  in  great  misery.  But  to  be  friendless,  and  in 
want,  and  poverty-stricken  is  the  best  recommendation  for 
admission  to  this  noble  charity.  And  here,  as  elsewhere, 


LITTLE  SCHOLARS.  63 

any  one  who  comes  to  the  door  is  taken  in,  Christian  as 
well  as  Jew. 

I  have  before  me  now  the  Report  for  the  year  5619 
(1858),  during  which  1,800  children  have  come  to  these 
schools  daily.  10,000  in  all  have  been  admitted  since  the 
foundation  of  the  school.  The  working  alone  of  the  estab- 
lishment —  salaries,  repairs,  books,  laundresses,  &c.  — 
amounts  to  more  than  £  2,000  a  year.  Of  this  a  very  con- 
siderable portion  goes  in  salaries  to  its  officers,  of  whom  I 
count  more  than  fifty  in  the  first  page  of  the  pamphlet. 
"  £  12  to  a  man  for  washing  boys,"  is  surely  well-spent 
money;  "£3  to  a  beadle,  £14  for  brooms  and  brushes, 
£1  19*.  Qd.  for  repair  of  clocks,"  are  among  the  items. 
The  anntial  subscriptions  are  under  £500,  and  the  very 
existence  of  the  place  (so  says  the  Report)  depends  on 
voluntary  offerings  at  the  anniversary.  That  some  of  these 
gifts  come  in  with  splendid  generosity  I  need  scarcely  say. 
Clothing  for  the  whole  school  arrives  at  Easter,  once  a  year, 
and  I  saw  great  bales  of  boots  for  the  boys  waiting  to  be 
unpacked  in  their  school-room.  Tailors  and  shoemakers 
come  and  take  measurings  beforehand,  so  that  everybody 
gets  his  own.  To-day,  these  artists  having  retired,  car- 
penters and  bricklayers  are  at  work  all  about  the  place,  and 
the  great  boys'  school,  which  is  larger  still  than  the  girls',  is 
necessarily  empty,  —  except  that  a  group  of  teachers  and 
monitors  are  standing  in  one  corner  talking  and  whisper- 
ing together.  The  head-master,  with  a  black  beard,  comes 
down  from  a  high  desk  in  an  inner  room,  and  tells  us  about 
the  place,  —  about  the  cleverness  of  the  children,  and  the 
scholarship  lately  founded ;  how  well  many  of  the  boys  turn 
out  in  after  life,  and  for  what  good  positions  they  are  fitted 
by  the  education  they  are  able  to  receive  here ;  —  "  though 
Jews,"  he  said,  "are  debarred  by  their  religious  require- 
ments from  two  thirds  of  the  employments  which  Christians 
are  able  to  fill.  Masters  cannot  afford  to  employ  workmen 


64  ANNA  THACKERAY. 

who  can  only  give  their  time  from  Monday  to  Friday  after- 
noon. There  are,  therefore,  only  a  very  limited  number  of 
occupations  open  to  us.  Some  of  our  boys  rise  to  be  min- 
isters, and  many  become  teachers  here,  in  which  case  gov- 
ernment allows  them  a  certain  portion  of  their  salary." 

The  head-mistress  in  the  girls'  school  was  not  less  kind 
and  ready  to  answer  our  questions.  During  the  winter 
mornings,  hot  bread-and-milk  are  given  out  to  any  girl  who 
chooses  to  ask  for  it,  but  only  about  a  hundred  come  for- 
ward, of  the  very  hungriest  and  poorest.  When  we  came 

away  from  Square  a  day  before,  we  had  begun  to 

think  that  all  poor  Jews  were  well  and  warmly  clad,  and 
had  time  to  curl  their  hair  and  to  look  clean  and  prosperous 
and  respectable,  but  here,  alas !  comes  the  old  story  of  want 
and  sorrow  and  neglect.  What  are  these  brown,  lean,  wan 
little  figures,  in  loose  gowns  falling  from  their  shoulders,  — 
black  eyes,  fuzzy,  unkempt  hair,  strange  bead  necklaces  round 
their  throats  and  ear-rings  in  their  ears  ?  I  fancied  these 
must  be  the  Poles  and  Russians ;  but  when  I  spoke  to  one 
of  them,  she  smiled,  and  answered  very  nicely,  in  perfectly 
good  English,  and  told  me  she  liked  writing  best  of  all,  and 
showed  me  a  copy  very  neat,  even,  and  legible. 

Whole  classes  seemed  busy  sewing  at  lilac  pinafores, 
which  are,  I  suppose,  a  great  national  institution;  others 
were  ciphering  and  calling  out  the  figures  as  the  mistress 
chalked  the  sum  upon  a  slate.  Hebrew  alphabets  and  sen- 
tences were  hanging  up  upon  the  walls.  All  these  little 
Hebrew  maidens  learn  the  language  of  their  nation. 

In  the  infant-school,  a  very  fat  little  pouting  baby,  with 
dark  eyes,  and  a  little  hook-nose  and  curly  locks,  and  a  blue 
necklace,  and  funny  ear-rings  in  her  little  rosy  ears,  came 
forward,  grasping  one  of  the  mistresses'  fingers. 

"  This  is  a  good  little  girl,"  said  that  lady,  "  who  knows 
her  alphabet  in  Hebrew  and  in  English." 

And  the  little  girl  looks   up   very  solemn,   as   children 


LITTLE   SCHOLARS.  65 

do,  to  whom  everything  is  of  vast  importance,  and  each 
little  incident  a  great  new  fact.  The  infant-schools  do 
not  make  part  of  the  Bell  Lane  Establishment,  though 
they  are  connected  with  it,  and  the  children,  as  they  grow 
up,  and  are  infants  no  longer,  draft  off  into  the  great  free- 
school. 

The  infant-school  is  a  light,  new  building  close  by,  with 
arcaded  play-grounds,  and  plenty  of  light  and  air  and 
freshness,  though  it  stands  in  this  dreary,  grimy  region.  As 
we  come  into  the  school-rooms  we  find,  piled  up  on  steps  at 
either  end,  great  living  heaps  of  little  infants,  swaying,  kick- 
ing, shouting  for  their  dinner,  beating  aimlessly  about  with 
little  legs  and  arms.  Little  Jew  babies  are  uncommonly 
like  little*  Christians ;  just  as  funny,  as  hungry,  as  helpless, 
and  happy  now  that  the  bowls  of  food  come  steaming  in. 
One,  two,  three,  four,  five  little  cook-boys,  in  white  jackets 
and  caps  and  aprons,  appear  in  a  Hue,  with  trays  upon 
their  heads,  like  the  processions  out  of  the  Arabian  Nights ; 
and  as  each  cook-boy  appears,  the  children  cheer,  and  the 
potatoes  steam  hotter  and  hotter,  and  the  mistresses  begin 
to  ladle  them  out. 

Rice  and  brown  potatoes  is  the  manna  given  twice  a 
week  to  these  hungry  little  Israelites.  I  rather  wish  for 
the  soup  and  pudding  certain  small  Christians  are  gobbling 
up  just  about  this  time  in  another  corner  of  London ;  but 
this  is  but  a  halfpenny-worth,  while  the  other  meal  costs  a 
penny.  You  may  count  by  hundreds  here,  instead  of  by 
tens ;  and  I  don't  think  there  would  be  so  much  shouting  at 
the  little  cook-boys  if  these  hungry  little  beaks  were  not 
eager  for  their  food.  I  was  introduced  to  one  little  boy 
here,  who  seemed  to  be  very  much  looked  up  to  by  his 
companions  because  he  had  one  long  curl  right  along  the 
top  of  his  head.  As  we  were  busy  talking  to  him,  a 
number  of  little  things  sitting  on  the  floor  were  busy  strok- 
ing and  feeling  with  little  gentle  fingers  the  soft  edges  of  a 
5 


66  ANNA  THACKERAY. 

coat  one  of  us  had  on,  and  the  silk  dress  of  a  lady  who  was 
present. 

The  lady  who  takes  chief  charge  of  these  400  babies 
told  us  how  the  mothers  as  well  as  the  children  got  assist- 
ance here  in  many  ways,  sometimes  coming  for  advice, 
sometimes  for  small  loans  of  money,  which  they  always 
faithfully  repay.  She  also  showed  us  letters  from  some  of 
the  boys  who  have  left  and  prospered  in  life.  One  from  a 
youth  who  has  lately  been  elected  alderman  in  some  distant 
colony.  She  took  us  into  a  class-room  and  gave  a  lesson  to 
some  twenty  little  creatures,  while,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  all 
the  380  others  were  tapping  at  the  door,  and  begging  to  be 
let  in.  It  was  an  object-,  and  then  a  scripture-lesson,  and 
given  with  the  help  of  old  familiar  pictures.  There  was 
Abraham  with  his  beard,  and  Isaac  and  the  ram,  hanging 
up  against  the  wall ;  there  was  Moses,  and  the  Egyptians, 
and  Joseph,  and  the  sack  and  the  brethren,  somewhat  out 
of  drawing.  All  these  old  friends  gave  one  quite  a  homely 
feeling,  and  seemed  to  hold  out  friendly  hands  to  us 
strangers  and  Philistines,  standing  within  the  gates  of  the 
chosen  people. 

Before  we  came  away  the  mistress  opened  a  door  and 
showed  us  one  of  the  prettiest  and  most  touching  sights  I 
have  ever  seen.  It  was  the  arcaded  play-ground  full  of 
happy,  shouting,  tumbling,  scrambling  little  creatures :  little 
turnbled-down  ones  kicking  and  shouting  on  the  ground, 
absurd  toddling  races  going  on,  whole  files  of  little  things 
wandering  up  and  down  with  their  arms  round  one  another's 
necks:  a  happy,  friendly  little  multitude  indeed:  a  sight 
good  for  sore  eyes. 

And  so  I  suppose  people  of  all  nations  and  religions  love 
and  tend  their  little  ones,  and  watch  and  yearn  over  them. 
I  have  seen  little  Catholics  cared  for  by  kind  nuns  with 
wistful  tenderness,  as  the  young  ones  came  clinging  to  their 
black  vails  and  playing  with  their  chaplets ;  —  little  High- 


LITTLE  SCHOLARS.  07 

Church  maidens  growing  up  rosy  and  happy  amid  crosses 
and  mediaeval  texts,  and  chants,  and  dinners  of  fish,  and 
kind  and  melancholy  ladies  in  close  caps  and  loose-cut 
dresses ;  —  little  Low-Church  children  smiling  and  dropping 
courtesies  as  they  see  the  Rev.  Mr.  Faith-in-grace  coming 
up  the  lane  with  tracts  in  his  big  pockets  about  pious  ne- 
groes, and  broken  vessels,  and  devouring  worms,  and  I 
dare  say  pennies  and  sugar-plums  as  well. 

Who  has  not  seen  and  noted  these  tilings,  and  blessed, 
with  a  thankful,  humble  heart,  that  fatherly  Providence 
which  has  sent  this  pure  and  tender  religion  of  little  chil- 
dren to  all  creeds  and  to  all  the  world? 


ANDANTE. 

BEETHOVEN'S    SIXTH    SYMPHONY. 
BY  A.  WEST. 

SOUNDING  above  the  warring  of  the  years, 
Over  their  stretch  of  toils,  and  pains,  and  fears, 
Comes  the  well-loved  refrain, 
That  ancient  voice  again. 

Sweeter  than  when  beside  the  river's  marge 
We  lay  and  watched,  like  Innocence  at  large, 

The  changeful  waters  flow, 

Speaks  this  brave  music  now. 

Tender  as  sunlight  upon  childhood's  head, 
Serene  as  moonlight  upon  childhood's  bed, 

Comes  the  remembered  power 

Of  that  forgotten  hour. 

The  little  brook  with  merry  voice  and  low, 
The  gentle  ripples  rippling  far  below, 
•    Talked  with  no  idle  voice, 

Though  idling  were  their  choice. 

Now  through  the  tumult  and  the  pride  of  life, 
Gentler,  yet  firmly  soothing  all  its  strife, 

Nature  draws  near  once  more, 

And  knocks  at  the  world's  door. 

She  walks  within  her  wild,  harmonious  maze, 
Evolving  melodies  from  doubt  and  haze, 

And  leaves  us  freed  from  care, 

Like  children  standing  there. 


ON   DREAMS. 

BY  SIR  THOMAS  BROWNE. 


HALF  our  days  we  pass  in  the  shadow  of  the  earth ; 
and  the  brother  of  death  exacteth  a  third  part  of  our 
lives.  A  good  part  of  our  sleep  is  peered  out  with  visions 
and  fantastical  objects,  wherein  we  are  confessedly  deceived. 
The  day  §upplieth  us  with  truths ;  the  night,  with  fictions 
and  falsehoods,  which  uncomfortably  divide  the  natural  ac- 
count of  our  beings.  And,  therefore,  having  passed  the  day 
in  sober  labors  and  rational  inquiries  of  truth,  we  are  fain 
to  betake  ourselves  unto  such  a  state  of  being,  wherein  the 
soberest  heads  have  acted  all  the  monstrosities  of  melancholy, 
and  which  unto  open  eyes  are  no  better  than  folly  and  mad- 
ness. 

Happy  are  they  that  go  to  bed  with  grand  music,  like 
Pythagoras,  or  have  ways  to  compose  the  fantastical  spirit, 
whose  unruly  wanderings  take  off  inward  sleep,  filling  our 
heads  with  St.  Anthony's  visions,  and  the  dreams  of  Lipara 
in  the  sober  chambers  of  rest. 

Virtuous  thoughts  of  the  day  lay  up  good  treasures  for 
the  night;  whereby  the  impressions  of  imaginary  forms 
arise  into  sober  similitudes,  acceptable  unto  our  slumbering 
selves  and  preparatory  unto  divine  impressions.  Hereby 
Solomon's  sleep  was  happy.  Thus  prepared,  Jacob  might 
well  dream  of  angels  upon  a  pillow  of  stone.  And  the  best 
sleep  of  Adam  might  be  the  best  of  any  after.* 

*  the  best  sleep  of  Adam,  <fc.]     The  only  sleep  of  Adam  recorded  is  that 
which  God  caused  to  fall  upon  him,  and  which  resulted  in  the  creation 


70  SIR  THOMAS  BROWNE. 

That  there  should  be  divine  dreams  seems  unreasonably 
doubted  by  Aristotle.  That  there  are  demoniacal  dreams 
we  have  little  reason  to  doubt.  Why  may  there  not  be 
angelical  ?  If  there  be  guardian  spirits,  they  may  not  be 
inactively  about  us  in  sleep  ;  but  may  sometimes  order  our 
dreams  :  and  many  strange  hints,  instigations,  or  discourses, 
which  are  so  amazing  unto  us,  may  arise  from  such  founda- 
tions. 

But  the  phantasms  of  sleep  do  commonly  walk  in  the 
great  road  of  natural  and  animal  dreams,  wherein  the 
thoughts  or  actions  of  the  day  are  acted  over  and  echoed 
in  the  night.  Who  can  therefore  wonder  that  Chrysostom 
should  dream  of  St.  Paul,  who  daily  read  his  epistles  ;  or 
that  Cardan,  whose  head  was  so  taken  up  about  the  stars, 
should  dream  that  his  soul  was  in  the  moon !  Pious  per- 
sons, whose  thoughts  are  daily  busied  about  heaven,  and  the 
blessed  state  thereof,  can  hardly  escape  the  nightly  phan- 
tasms of  it,  which  though  sometimes  taken  for  illuminations, 
or  divine  dreams,  yet  rightly  perpended  may  prove  but 
animal  visions,  and  natural  night-scenes  of  their  awaking 
contemplations. 

Many  dreams  are  made  out  by  sagacious  exposition,  and 
from  the  signature  of  their  subjects  ;  carrying  their  interpre- 
tation in  their  fundamental  sense  and  mystery  of  similitude, 
whereby  he  that  understands  upon  what  natural  fundamental 
every  notion  dependeth  may,  by  symbolical  adaptation,  hold 
a  ready  way  to  read  the  characters  of  Morpheus.  In  dreams 
of  such  a  nature,  Artemidorus,  Achmet,  and  Astrampsichus, 
from  Greek,  Egyptian,  and  Arabian  oneiro-criticism,  may 
hint  some  interpretation  ;  who,  while  we  read  of  a  ladder  in 
Jacob's  dream,  will  tell  us  that  ladders  and  scalary  ascents 
signify  preferment;  and  while  we  consider  the  dream  of 
Pharaoh,  do  teach  us  that  rivers  overflowing  speak  plenty, 

of  woman.    It  does  not  veiy  clearly  appear  whether  Sir  Thomas  calls  it 
the  best  sleep  of  Adam  in  allusion  to  its  origin  or  its  result. 


ON  DREAMS.  71 

lean  oxen,  famine  and  scarcity ;  and  therefore  it  was  but 
reasonable  in  Pharaoh  to  demand  the  interpretation  from 
his  magicians,  who,  being  Egyptians,  should  have  been  well 
versed  in  symbols  and  the  hieroglyphical  notions  of  tilings. 
The  greatest  tyrant  in  such  divinations  was  Xabuchodonosor, 
while,  besides  the  interpretation,  he  demanded  the  dream 
itself;  which  being  probably  determined  by  divine  immission, 
might  escape  the  common  road  of  phantasms,  that  might  have 
been  traced  by  Satan. 

When  Alexander,  going  to  besiege  Tyre,  dreamt  of  a 
Satyr,  it  was  no  hard  exposition  for  a  Grecian  to  say,  "  Tyre 
will  be  thine."  He  that  dreamed  that  he  saw  his  father 
washed  by  Jupiter  and  anointed  by  the  sun,  had  cause  to 
fear  that  fye  might  be  crucified,  whereby  his  body  would  be 
washed  by  the  rain,  and  drop  by  the  heat  of  the  sun.  The 
dream  of  Vespasian  was  of  harder  exposition ;  as  also  that 
of  the  Emperor  Mauritius,  concerning  his  successor  Phocas. 
And  a  man  might  have  been  hard  put  to  it  to  interpret  the 
language  of  JEsculapius,  when  to  a  consumptive  person  he 
held  forth  his  fingers  ;  implying  thereby  that  his  cure  lay  in 
dates,  from  the  homonomy  of  the  Greek,  which  signifies 
dates  and  fingers. 

We  owe  unto  dreams  that  Galen  was  a  physician,  Dion 
an  historian,  and  that  the  world  hath  seen  some  notable 
pieces  of  Cardan ;  yet,  he  that  should  order  his  affairs  by 
dreams,  or  make  the  night  a  rule  unto  the  day,  might  be 
ridiculously  deluded ;  wherein  Cicero  is  much  to  be  pitied, 
who  having  excellently  discoursed  of  the  vanity  of  dreams, 
was  yet  undone  by  the  flattery  of  his  own,  which  urged  him 
to  apply  himself  unto  Augustus. 

However  dreams  may  be  fallacious  concerning  outward 
events,  yet  may  they  be  truly  significant  at  home ;  and 
whereby  we  may  more  sensibly  understand  ourselves.  Men 
act  in  sleep  with  some  conformity  unto  their  awaked  senses  ; 
and  consolations  or  discouragements  may  be  drawn  from 


72  SIR  THOMAS  BROWNE. 

dreams  which  intimately  tell  us  ourselves.  Luther  was  not 
like  to  fear  a  spirit  in  the  night,  when  such  an  apparition 
would  not  terrify  him  in  the  day.  Alexander  would  hardly 
have  run  away  in  the  sharpest  combats  of  sleep,  nor  Demos- 
thenes have  stood  stoutly  to  it,  who  was  scarce  able  to  do  it 
in  his  prepared  senses. 

Persons  of  radical  integrity  will  not  easily  be  perverted 
in  their  dreams,  nor  noble  minds  do  pitiful  things  in  sleep. 
Crassus  would  have  hardly  been  bountiful  in  a  dream,  whose 
fist  was  so  close  awake.  But  a  man  might  have  lived  all  his 
life  upon  the  sleeping  hand  of  Antonius.* 

There  is  an  art  to  make  dreams,  as  well  as  their  interpre- 
tations ;  and  physicians  will  tell  us  that  some  food  makes 
turbulent,  some  gives  quiet  dreams.  Cato,  who  doated  upon 
cabbage,  might  find  the  crude  effects  thereof  in  his  sleep ; 
wherein  the  Egyptians  might  find  some  advantage  by  their 
superstitious  abstinence  from  onions.  Pythagoras  might 
have  [had]  calmer  sleeps,  if  he  [had]  totally  abstained 
from  beans.  Even  Daniel,  the  great  interpreter  of  dreams, 
in  his  leguminous  diet  seems  to  have  chosen  no  advanta- 
geous food  for  quiet  sleeps,  according  to  Grecian  physic. 

To  add  unto  the  delusion  of  dreams,  the  fantastical  ob- 
jects seem  greater  than  they  are ;  and  being  beheld  in  the 
vaporous  state  of  sleep,  enlarge  their  diameters  unto  us ; 
whereby  it  may  prove  more  easy  to  dream  of  giants  than 
pygmies.  Democritus  might  seldom  dream  of  atoms,  who 
so  often  thought  of  them.  He  almost  might  dream  himself 
a  bubble  extending  unto  the  eighth  sphere.  A  little  water 
makes  a  sea ;  a  small  puff  of  wind  a  tempest.  A  grain  of 
sulphur  kindled  in  the  blood  may  make  a  flame  like  ^Etua ; 
and  a  small  spark  in  the  bowels  of  Olympias  a  lightning 
over  all  the  chamber. 

*  sleeping  hand  of  Antonius."]  Who  awake  was  open-handed  and  liberal, 
in  contrast  with  the  close-fsledness  of  Crassus,  and  therefore  would  have 
been  munificent  in  his  dreams. 


ON  DREAMS.  73 

« 

But,  beside  these  innocent  delusions,  there  is  a  sinful  state 
of  dreams.  Death  alone,  not  sleep,  is  able  to  put  an  end  unto 
sin ;  and  there  may  be  a  night-book  of  our  iniquities ;  for 
beside  the  transgressions  of  the  day,  casuists  will  tell  us  of 
mortal  sins  in  dreams,  arising  from  evil  precogitations ;  moau- 
while  human  law  regards  not  noctambulos ;  and  if  a  night- 
walker  should  break  his  neck,  or  kill  a  man,  takes  no  notice 
of  it. 

Dionysius  was  absurdly  tyrannical  to  kill  a  man  for  dream- 
ing that  he  had  killed  him ;  and  really  to  take  away  his  life, 
who  had  but  fantastically  taken  away  his.  Lamia  was  ridicu- 
lously unjust  to  sue  a  young  man  for  a  reward,  who  had 
confessed  that  pleasure  from  her  in  a  dream  which  she  had 
denied  unto  his  awaking  senses :  conceiving  that  she  had 
merited  somewhat  from  his  fantastical  fruition  and  shadow 
of  herself.  If  there  be  such  debts,  we  owe  deeply  unto 
sympathies ;  but  the  common  spirit  of  the  world  must  be 
ready  in  such  arrearages. 

If  some  have  swooned,  they  may  have  also  died  in  dreams, 
since  death  is  but  a  confirmed  swooning.  Whether  Plato 
died  in  a  dream,  as  some  deliver,  he  must  rise  again  to 
inform  us.  That  some  have  never  dreamed  is  as  improbable 
as  that  some  have  never  laughed.  That  children  dream  not 
the  first  half-year ;  that  men  dream  not  in  some  countries, 
with  many  more,  are  unto  me  sick  men's  dreams ;  dreams 
out  of  the  ivory  gate,*  and  visions  before  midnight. 

*  the  ivory  gate.]  The  poets  suppose  two  gates  of  sleep,  the  one  of 
horn,  from  which  true  dreams  proceed;  the  other  of  ivory,  which  sends 
forth  false  dreams. 


GOBLIN   MARKET 

BY  CHRISTINA  ROSSETTL 


MORNING  and  evening 
Maids  heard  the  goblins  cry 
"  Come  buy  our  orchard  fruits, 
Come  buy,  come  buy : 
Apples  and  quinces, 
Lemons  and  oranges, 
Plump  unpecked  cherries, 
Melons  and  raspberries, 
Bloom-down-cheeked  peaches, 
Swart-headed  mulberries, 
Wild  free-born  cranberries, 
Crab-apples,  dewberries, 
Pine-apples,  blackberries, 
Apricots,  strawberries ;  — 
All  ripe  together 
In  summer  weather,  — 
Morns  that  pass  by, 
Fair  eves  that  fly  j 
Come  buy,  come  buy : 
Our  grapes  fresh  from  the  vine, 
Pomegranates  full  and  fine, 
Dates  and  sharp  bullaces, 
Rare  pears  and  greengages, 
Damsons  and  bilberries, 


GOBLIN  MARKET.  75 

Taste  them  and  try : 

Currants  and  gooseberries, 

Bright-fire-like  barberries, 

Figs  to  fill  your  mouth, 

Citrons  from  the  South, 

Sweet  to  tongue  and  sound  to  eye ; 

Come  buy,  come  buy." 

Evening  by  evening 
Among  the  brookside  rushes, 
Laura  bowed  her  head  to  hear, 
Lizzie  veiled  her  blushes : 
Crouching  close  together 
In*  the  cooling  weather, 
With  clasping  arms  and  cautioning  lips, 
With  tingling  cheeks  and  finger  tips. 
u  Lie  close,"  Laura  said, 
Pricking  up  her  golden  head : 
"  We  must  not  look  at  goblin  men, 
We  must  not  buy  their  fruits  : 
Who  knows  upon  what  soil  they  fed 
Their  hungry,  thirsty  roots  ?  " 
"  Come  buy,"  call  the  goblins, 
Hobbh'ng  down  the  glen. 
"  Oh,"  cried  Lizzie,  "  Laura,  Laura, 
You  should  not  peep  at  goblin  men." 
Lizzie  covered  up  her  eyes, 
Covered  close,  lest  they  should  look ; 
Laura  reared  her  glossy  head, 
And  whispered  like  the  restless  brook : 
"  Look,  Lizzie,  look,  Lizzie, 
Down  the  glen  tramp  little  men. 
One  hauls  a  basket, 
One  bears  a  plate, 
One  lugs  a  golden  dish 


76  CHRISTINA  ROSSETTL 

Of  many  pounds  weight. 

How  fair  the  vine  must  grow 

Whose  grapes  are  so  luscious ; 

How  warm  the  wind  must  blow 

Through  those  fruit  bushes." 

"  No,"  said  Lizzie :  "  No,  no,  no  ; 

Their  offers  should  not  charm  us, 

Their  evil  gifts  would  harm  us." 

She  thrust  a  dimpled  finger 

In  each  ear,  shut  eyes  and  ran : 

Curious  Laura  chose  to  linger, 

Wondering  at  each  merchant  man. 

One  had  a  cat's  face, 

One  whisked  a  tail, 

One  tramped  at  a  rat's  pace, 

One  crawled  like  a  snail, 

One  like  a  wombat  prowled  obtuse  and  fiirry, 

One  like  a  ratel  tumbled  hurry  skurry. 

She  heard  a  voice  like  voice  of  doves 

Cooing  all  together : 

They  sounded  kind  and  full  of  loves 

In  the  pleasant  weather. 

Laura  stretched  her  gleaming  neck 
Like  a  rush-imbedded  swan, 
Like  a  lily  from  the  beck, 
Like  a  moonlit  poplar  branch, 
Like  a  vessel  at  the  launch, 
When  its  last  restraint  is  gone. 

Backwards  up  the  mossy  glen 
Turned  and  trooped  the  goblin  men, 
With  their  shrill,  repeated  cry, 
u  Come  buy,  come  buy." 
When  they  reached  where  Laura  was 


GOBLIN  MARKET.  77 

They  stood  stock  still  upon  the  moss, 
•  Leering  at  each  other, 
Brother  with  queer  brother ; 
Signalling  each  other, 
Brother  with  sly  brother. 
One  set  his  basket  down, 
One  reared  his  plate ; 
One  began  to  weave  a  crown 
Of  tendrils,  leaves,  and  rough  nuts  brown 
(Men  sell  not  such  in  any  town)  ; 
One  heaved  the  golden  weight 
Of  dish  and  fruit  to  offer  her  : 
"  Come  buy,  come  buy,"  was  still  their  cry. 
Laura  Stared,  but  did  not  stir, 
Longed,  but  had  no  money : 
The  whisk-tailed  merchant  bade  her  taste 
In  tones  as  smooth  as  honey, 
The  cat-faced  purred, 
The  rat-paced  spoke  a  word 
Of  welcome,  and  the  snail-paced  even  was  heard ; 
One  parrot- voiced  and  jolly 

Cried  "  Pretty  Goblin  "  still  for  "  Pretty  Polly  " ;  — 
One  whistled  like  a  bird. 

But  sweet-tooth  Laura  spoke  in  haste  • 
"  Good  folk,  I  have  no  coin  ; 
To  take  were  to  purloin  : 
I  have  no  copper  in  my  purse, 
I  have  no  silver  either, 
And  all  my  gold  is  on  the  furze 
That  shakes  in  windy  weather 
Above  the  rusty  heather." 
"  You  have  much  gold  upon  your  head," 
They  answered  all  together : 
a  Buy  from  us  with  a  golden  curl." 


78  CHRISTINA   ROSSETTI. 

She  clipped  a  precious  golden  lock, 
She  dropped  a  tear  more  rare  than  pearl, 
Then  sucked  their  fruit  globes  fair  or  red : 
Sweeter  than  honey  from  the  rock, 
Stronger  than  man-rejoicing  wine, 
Clearer  than  water  flowed  that  juice  ; 
She  never  tasted  such  before, 
How  should  it  cloy  with  length  of  use  ? 
She  sucked  and  sucked  and  sucked  the  more 
Fruits  which  that  unknown  orchard  bore ; 
.  She  sucked  until  her  lips  were  sore ; 
Then  flung  the  emptied  rinds  away, 
But  gathered  up  one  kernel-stone, 
And  knew  not  was  it  night  or  day 
As  she  turned  home  alone. 

Lizzie  met  her  at  the  gate, 
Full  of  wise  upbraidings : 
"  Dear,  you  should  not  stay  so  late, 
Twilight  is  not  good  for  maidens ; 
Should  not  loiter  in  the  glen, 
In  the  haunts  of  goblin  men. 
Do  you  not  remember  Jeanie, 
How  she  met  them  in  the  moonlight, 
Took  their  gifts  both  choice  and  many, 
Ate  their  fruits  and  wore  their  flowers, 
Plucked  from  bowers 
Where  summer  ripens  at  all  hours  ? 
But  ever  in  the  moonlight 
She  pined  and  pined  away ; 
Sought  them  by  night  and  day, 
Found  them  no  more,  but  dwindled  and  grew  gray ; 
Then  fell  with  the  first  snow, 
While  to  this  day  no  grass  will  grow 
Where  she  lies  low : 


GOBLIN  MARKET.  73 

I  planted  daisies  there  a  year  ago 

That  never  blow. 

You  should  not  loiter  so." 

"  Nay,  hush,"  said  Laura : 

u  Nay,  hush,  my  sister : 

I  ate  and  ate  my  fill, 

Yet  my  mouth  waters  still ;     . 

To-morrow  night  I  will 

Buy  more " :  and  kissed  her: 

"  Have  done  with  sorrow ; 

I  '11  bring  you  plums  to-morrow 

Fresh  on  their  mother  twigs, 

Cherries  worth  getting ; 

You  cannot  think  what  figs 

My  teeth  have  met  in, 

What  melons  icy-cold 

Piled  on  a  dish  of  gold 

Too  huge  for  me  to  hold, 

What  peaches  with  a  velvet  nap, 

Pellucid  grapes  without  one  seed : 

Odorous  indeed  must  be  the  mead 

Whereon  they  grow,  and  pure  the  wave  they  drink 

With  lilies  at  the  brink, 

And  sugar-sweet  their  sap." 

Golden  head  by  golden  head, 
Like  two  pigeons  in  one  nest 
Folded  in  each  other's  wings, 
They  lay  down  in  their  curtained  bed : 
Like  two  blossoms  on  one  stem, 
Like  two  flakes  of  new-fall'n  snow, 
Like  two  wands  of  ivory 
Tipped  with  gold  for  awful  kings. 
Moon  and  stars  gazed  in  at  them, 
Wind  sang  to  them  lullaby, 


80  CHRISTINA  ROSSETTL 

Lumbering  owls  forbore  to  fly, 
Not  a  bat  flapped  to  and  fro 
Round  their  rest : 

Cheek  to  cheek  and  breast  to  breast 
Locked  together  in  one  nest 

Early  in  the  morning, 
When  the  first  cock  crowed  his  warning, 
Neat  like  bees,  as  sweet  and  busy, 
Laura  rose  with  Lizzie : 
Fetched  in  honey,  milked  the  cows, 
Aired  and  set  to  rights  the  house, 
Kneaded  cakes  of  whitest  wheat, 
Cakes  for  dainty  mouths  to  eat, 
Next  churned  butter,  whipped  up  cream, 
Fed  their  poultry,  sat  and  sewed ; 
Talked  as  modest  maidens  should : 
Lizzie  with  an  open  heart, 
Laura  in  an  absent  dream, 
One  content,  one  sick  in  part ; 
One  warbling  for  the  mere  bright  day's  delight, 
One  longing  for  the  night. 

At  length  slow  evening  came  : 
They  went  with  pitchers  to  the  reedy  brook ; 
Lizzie  most  placid  in  her  look, 
Laura  most  like  a  leaping  flame. 
They  drew  the  gurgling  water  from  its  deep ; 
"Lizzie  plucked  purple  and  rich  golden  flags, 
Then  turning  homewards  said :  "  The  sunset  flushes 
Those  farthest  loftiest  crags  ; 
Come,  Laura,  not  another  maiden  lags, 
No  wilful  squirrel  wags, 
The  beasts  and  birds  are  fast  asleep." 
But  Laura  loitered  still  among  the  rushes, 
And  said  the  bank  was  steep. 


GOBLIN  MARKET.  81 

And  said  the  hour  was  early  still, 
The  dew  not  fall'n,  the  wind  not  chill: 
Listening  ever,  but  not  catching 
The  customary  cry, 
"  Come  buy,  come  buy," 
With  its  iterated  jingle 
Of  sugar-baited  words : 
Not  for  all  her  watching 
Once  discerning  even  one  goblin 
Racing,  whisking,  tumbling,  hobbling ; 
Let  alone  the  herds 
That  used  to  tramp  along  the  glen, 
In  groups  or  single, 
Of  Jbrisk  fruit-merchant  men. 

Till  Lizzie  urged,  "  O  Laura,  come ; 
I  hear  the  fruit-call,  but  I  dare  not  look ; 
You  should  not  loiter  longer  at  this  brook : 
Come  with  me  home. 
The  stars  rise,  the  moon  bends  her  arc, 
Each  glow-worm  winks  her  spark, 
Let  us  get  home  before  the  night  grows  dark : 
For  clouds  may  gather, 
Though  this  is  summer  weather, 
Put  out  the  lights  and  drench  us  through ; 
Then  if  we  lost  our  way,  what  should  we  do  ?" 

Laura  turned  cold  as  stone 
To  find  her  sister  heard  that  cry  alone, 
That  goblin  cry, 

"  Come  buy  our  fruits,  come  buy." 
Must  she,  then,  buy  no  more  such  dainty  fruits  ? 
Must  she  no  more  that  succous  pasture  find, 
Gone  deaf  and  blind  ? 
Her  tree  of  life  drooped  from  the  root : 
6 


82  CHRISTINA  KOSSETTL 

She  said  not  one  word  in  her  heart's  sore  ache , 

But  peering  through  the  dimness,  naught  discerning, 

Trudged  home,  her  pitcher  dripping  all  the  way : 

So  crept  to  bed  and  lay 

Silent  till  Lizzie  slept ; 

Then  sat  up  in  a  passionate  yearning, 

And  gnashed  her  teeth  for  balked  desire,  and  wept 

As  if  her  heart  would  break. 

Day  after  day,  night  after  night, 
Laura  kept  watch  in  vain 
In  sullen  silence  of  exceeding  pain. 
She  never  caught  again  the  goblin  cry : 
"  Come  buy,  come  buy  " ;  — 
She  never  spied  the  goblin  men 
Hawking  their  fruits  along  the  glen  ; 
But  when  the  noon  waxed  bright, 
Her  hair  grew  thin  and  gray  ; 
She  dwindled,  as  the  fair  full  moon  doth  turn 
To  swift  decay  and  burn 
Her  fire  away. 

One  day,  remembering  her  kernel-stone, 
She  set  it  by  a  wall  that  faced  the  south  ; 
Dewed  it  with  tears,  hoped  for  a  root, 
Watched  for  a  waxing  shoot, 
But  there  came  none ; 
It  never  saw  the  sun, 
It  never  felt  the  trickling  moisture  run : 
While  with  sunk  eyes  and  faded  mouth 
She  dreamed  of  melons,  as  a  traveller  sees 
False  waves  in  desert  drouth 
With  shade  of  leaf-crowned  trees, 
And  burns  the  thirstier  in  the  sandful  breeze. 


GOBLIN  MARKET.  83 

She  no  more  swept  the  house, 
Tended  the  fowls  or  cows, 
Fetched  honey,  kneaded  cakes  of  wheat, 
Brought  water  from  the  brook : 
But  sat  down  listless  in  the  chimney-nook, 
And  would  not  eat. 

Tender  Lizzie  could  not  bear 
To  watch  her  sister's  cankerous  care, 
Yet  not  to  share. 
She  night  and  morning 
Caught  the  goblins'  cry : 
"  Come  buy  our  orchard  fruits, 
Come^  buy,  come  buy  " :  — 
Beside  the  brook,  along  the  glen, 
She  heard  the  tramp  of  goblin  men, 
The  voice  and  stir 
Poor  Laura  could  not  hear ; 
Longed  to  buy  fruit  to  comfort  her, 
But  feared  to  pay  too  dear. 
She  thought  of  Jeanie  in  her  grave, 
Who  should  have  been  a  bride ; 
But  who  for  joys  brides  hope  to  have 
Fell  sick  and  died 
In  her  gay  prime, 
In  earliest  Winter  time, 
With  the  first  glazing  rime, 
With  the  first  snow-fall  of  crisp  Winter  time. 

Till  Laura  dwindling 
Seemed  knocking  at  Death's  door : 
Then  Lizzie  weighed  no  more 
Better  and  worse ; 

But  put  a  silver  penny  in  her  purse, 
Kissed  Laura,  crossed  the  heath  with  clumps  of  furze 


84  CHRISTINA  BOSSETTL 

At  twilight,  halted  by  the  brook 
And  for  the  first  time  in  her  life 
Began  to  listen  and  look. 

Laughed  every  goblin 
When  they  spied  her  peeping  • 
Came  towards  her  hobbling, 
Flying,  running,  leaping, 
Puffing  and  blowing, 
Chuckling,  clapping,  crowing. 
Clucking  and  gobbling, 
Mopping  and  mowing, 
Full  of  airs  and  graces, 
Pulling  wry  faces, 
Demure  grimaces, 
Cat-like  and  rat-like, 
Ratel-  and  wombat-like, 
Snail-paced  in  a  hurry, 
Parrot-voiced  and  whistler, 
Helter  skelter,  hurry  skurry, 
Chattering  like  magpies, 
Fluttering  like  pigeons, 
Gliding  like  fishes,  — 
Hugged  her  and  kissed  her, 
Squeezed  and  caressed  her : 
Stretched  up  their  dishes, 
•   Panniers,  and  plates : 
"  Look  at  our  apples 
Russet  and  dun, 
Bob  at  our  cherries, 
Bite  at  our  peaches, 
Citrons  and  dates, 
Grapes  for  the  asking, 
Pears  red  with  basking 
Out  in  the  sun, 


GOBLIN  MARKET.  85 

Plums  on  their  twigs ; 
Pluck  them  and  suck  them, 
Pomegranates,  figs." 

"  Good  folk,"  said  Lizzie, 
Mindful  of  Jeanie : 
"  Give  me  much  and  many  n :  — 
Held  out  her  apron, 
Tossed  them  her  penny. 
"  Nay,  take  a  seat  with  us, 
Honor  and  eat  with  us," 
They  answered,  grinning : 
"  Our  feast  is  but  beginning. 
Night  yet  is  early, 
Warm  and  dew-pearly, 
Wakeful  and  starry : 
Such  fruits  as  these 
No  man  can  carry ; 
Half  their  bloom  would  fly, 
Half  their  dew  would  dry, 
Half  their  flavor  would  pass  by. 
Sit  down  and  feast  with  us, 
Be  welcome  guest  with  us, 
Cheer  you  and  rest  with  us."  — 
"  Thank  you,"  said  Lizzie.    "  But  one  waits 
At  home  alone  for  me : 
So  without  further  parleying, 
If  you  will  not  sell  me  any 
Of  your  fruits,  though  much  and  many, 
Give  me  back  my  silver  penny 
I  tossed  you  for  a  fee."  — 
They  began  to  scratch  their  pates, 
No  longer  wagging,  purring, 
But  visibly  demurring, 
Grunting  and  snarling. 


86  CHRISTINA  ROSSETTI. 

One  called  her  proud, 

Cross-grained,  uncivil ; 

Their  tones  waxed  loud, 

Their  looks  were  evil. 

Lashing  their  tails 

They  trod  and  hustled  her, 

Elbowed  and  jostled  her, 

Clawed  with  their  nails, 

Barking,  mewing,  hissing,  mocking, 

Tore  her  gown  and  soiled  her  stocking, 

Twitched  her  hair  out  by  the  roots, 

Stamped  upon  her  tender  feet, 

Held  her  hands  and  squeezed  their  fruits 

Against  her  mouth  to  make  her  eat. 

White  and  golden  Lizzie  stood, 
Like  a  lily  in  a  flood,  — 
Like  a  rock  of  blue-veined  stone 
Lashed  by  tides  obstreperously,  — 
Like  a  beacon  left  alone 
In  a  hoary  roaring  sea, 
Sending  up  a  golden  fire,  — 
Like  a  fruit-crowned  orange-tree 
White  with  blossoms  honey-sweet 
Sore  beset  by  wasp  and  bee,  — 
Like  a  royal  virgin  town 
Topped  with  gilded  dome  and  spire 
Close  beleaguered  by  a  fleet 
Mad  to  tug  her  standard  down. 

One  may  lead  a  horse  to  water, 
Twenty  cannot  make  him  drink. 
Though  the  goblins  cuffed  and  caught  her, 
Coaxed  and  fought  her, 
Bullied  and  besought  her, 


GOBLIN  MARKET.  87 

Scratched  her,  pinched  her  black  as  ink, 

Kicked  and  knocked  her, 

Mauled  and  mocked  her, 

Lizzie  uttered  not  a  word ; 

Would  not  open  lip  from  lip 

Lest  they  should  cram  a  mouthful  in : 

But  laughed  in  heart  to  feel  the  drip 

Of  juice  that  syrupped  all  her  face, 

And  lodged  in  dimples  of  her  chin, 

And  streaked  her  neck  which  quaked  like  curd. 

At  last  the  evil  people 

Worn  out  by  her  resistance 

Flung  back  her  penny,  kicked  their  fruit 

Along  whichever  road  they  took, 

Not  leaving  root  or  stone  or  shoot ; 

Some  writhed  into  the  ground, 

Some  dived  into  the  brook 

With  ring  and  ripple, 

Some  scudded  on  the  gale  without  a  sound, 

Some  vanished  in  the  distance. 

In  a  smart,  ache,  tingle, 
Lizzie  went  her  way ; 
Knew  not  was  it  night  or  day ; 
.Sprang  up  the  bank,  tore  through  the  furze, 
Threaded  copse  and  dingle, 
And  heard  her  penny  jingle 
Bouncing  in  her  purse,  — 
Its  bounce  was  music  to  her  ear. 
She  ran  and  ran 

As  if  she  feared  some  goblin  man 
Dogged  her  with  gibe  or  curse 
Or  something  worse : 
But  not  one  goblin  skurried  after, 
Nor  was  she  pricked  by  fear ; 


88  CHRISTINA  KOSSETTI. 

The  kind  heart  made  her  windy-paced 

That  urged  her  home  quite  out  of  breath  with  haste 

And  inward  laughter. 

She  cried  "  Laura,"  up  the  garden, 
"  Did  you  miss  me  ? 
Come  and  kiss  me. 
Never  mind  my  bruises, 
Hug  me,  kiss  me,  suck  my  juices 
Squeezed  from  goblin  fruits  for  you, 
Goblin  pulp  and  goblin  dew. 
Eat  me,  drink  me,  love  me ; 
Laura  make  much  of  me : 
For  your  sake  I  have  braved  the  glen 
And  had  to  do  with  goblin  merchant  men.* 

Laura  started  from  her  chair, 
Flung  her  arms  up  in  the  air, 
Clutched  her  hair : 
"  Lizzie,  Lizzie,  have  you  tasted 
For  my  sake  the  fruit  forbidden  ? 
Must  your  light  like  mine  be  hidden, 
Your  young  life  like  mine  be  wasted, 
Undone  in  mine  undoing 
And  ruined  in  my  ruin, 
Thirsty,  cankered,  goblin-ridden  ?  " 
She  clung  about  her  sister, 
Kissed  and  kissed  and  kissed  her : 
Tears  once  again 
Refreshed  her  shrunken  eyes, 
Dropping  like  rain 
After  long  sultry  drouth ; 
Shaking  with  aguish  fear,  and  pain, 
She  kissed  and  kissed  her  with  a  hungry  mouth. 


GOBLIN  MARKET.  89 

Her  lips  began  to  scorch, 
That  juice  was  wormwood  to  her  tongue, 
She  loathed  the  feast : 

Writhing  as  one  possessed  she  leaped  and  sung, 
Rent  all  her  robe,  and  wrung 
Her  hands  in  lamentable  haste, 
And  beat  her  breast. 
Her  locks  streamed  like  the  torch 
Borne  by  a  racer  at  full  speed, 
Or  like  the  mane  of  horses  in  their  flight, 
Or  like  an  eagle  when  she  stems  the  light 
Straight  toward  the  sun, 
Or  like  a  caged  thing  freed, 
Or  like  a  flying  flag  when  armies  run. 

Swift  fire  spread  through  her  veins,  knocked  at  her  heart, 
Met  the  fire  smouldering  there 
And  overbore  its  lesser  flame  ; 
She  gorged  on  bitterness  without  a  name  : 
Ah !  fool,  to  choose  such  part 
Of  soul-consuming  care ! 
Sense  failed  in  the  mortal  strife : 
Like  the  watch-tower  of  a  town 
Which  an  earthquake  shatters  down, 
Like  a  lightning-stricken  mast, 
Like  a  wind-uprooted  tree 
Spun  about, 

Like  a  foam-topped  waterspout 
Cast  down  headlong  in  the  sea, 
She  fell  at  last ; 
Pleasure  past  and  anguish  past, 
Is  it  death  or  is  it  life  ? 

Life  out  of  death. 
That  night  long  Lizzie  watched  by  her, 


90  CHRISTINA  ROSSETTI. 

Counted  her  pulse's  flagging  stir, 

Felt  for  her  breath, 

Held  water  to  her  lips,  and  cooled  her  face 

With  tears  and  fanning  leaves : 

But  when  the  first  birds  chirped  about  their  eaves, 

And  early  reapers  plodded  to  the  place 

Of  golden  sheaves, 

And  dew-wet  grass 

Bowed  in  the  morning  winds  so  brisk  to  pass, 

And  new  buds  with  new  day 

Opened  of  cup-like  lilies  on  the  stream, 

Laura  awoke  as  from  a  dream, 

Laughed  in  the  innocent  old  way, 

Hugged  Lizzie,  but  not  twice  or  thrice ; 

Her  gleaming  locks  showed  not  one  thread  of  gray 

Her  breath  was  sweet  as  May, 

And  light  danced  in  her  eyes. 

Days,  weeks,  months,  years, 
Afterwards,  when  both  were  wives 
With  children  of  their  own ; 
Their  mother-hearts  beset  with  fears, 
Their  lives  bound  up  in  tender  lives ; 
Laura  would  call  the  little  ones 
And  tell  them  of  her  early  prime, 
Those  pleasant  days  long  gone 
Of  not-returning  time : 
Would  talk  about  the  haunted  glen, 
The  wicked,  quaint  fruit-merchant  men, 
Their  fruits  like  honey  to  the  throat, 
But  poison  in  the  blood ; 
(Men  sell  not  such  in  any  town : ) 
Would  tell  them  how  her  sister  stood, 
In  deadly  peril  to  do  her  good, 
And  win  the  fiery  antidote : 


GOBLIN  MARKET.  91 

Then  joining  hands  to  little  hands 
"Would  bid  them  cling  together, 
u  For  there  is  no  friend  like  a  sister 
In  calm  or  stormy  weather ; 
To  cheer  one  on  the  tedious  wa/, 
To  .fetch  one  if  one  goes  astray, 
To  lift  one  if  one  totters  down 
To  strengthen  whilst  one  stands." 


LOVE    AND    SKATES. 

BY  THEODORE  WLNTHROP. 
CHAPTER   I. 

A  KNOT   AND   A  MAN   TO   CUT   IT. 

ONSTERNATION !  Consternation  in  the  back  office 
of  Benjamin  Brummage,  Esq.,  banker  in  Wall 
Street. 

Yesterday  down  came  Mr.  Superintendent  Whiffler,  from 
Dunderbunk,  up  the  North  River,  to  say,  that,  "unless 
something  be  done,  at  once,  the  Dunderbunk  Foundry  and 
Iron- Works  must  wind  up."  President  Brummage  forth- 
with convoked  his  Directors.  And  here  they  sat  around 
the  green  table,  forlorn  as  the  guests  at  a  Barmecide 
feast. 

Well  they  might  be  forlorn!  It  was  the  rosy  summer 
solstice,  the  longest  and  fairest  day  of  all  the  year.  But 
rose-color  and  sunshine  had  fled  from  Wall  Street.  Noisy 
Crisis  towing  black  Panic,  as  a  puffing  steam-tug  drags  a 
three-decker  cocked  and  primed  for  destruction,  had  sud- 
denly sailed  in  upon  Credit. 

As  all  the  green  inch-worms  vanish  on  the  tenth  of  every 
June,  so  on  the  tenth  of  that  June  all  the  money  in  America 
had  buried  itself  and  was  as  if  it  were  not.  Everybody  and 
everything  was  ready  to  fail.  If  the  hindmost  brick  went, 
down  would  go  the  whole  file. 

There  were  ten  Directors  of  the  Dunderbunk  Foundry. 

Now,  not  seldom,  of  a  Board  of  ten  Directors,  five  a-e 


LOVE  AND  SKATES.  93 

wise  and  five  are  foolish :  five  wise,  who  bag  all  the  Com- 
pany's funds  in  salaries  and  commissions  for  indorsing  its 
paper ;  five  foolish,  who  get  no  salaries,  no  commissions,  no 
dividends,  —  nothing,  indeed,  but  abuse  from  the  stock- 
holders, and  the  reputation  of  thieves.  That  is  to  say, 
five  of  the  ten  are  pickpockets ;  the  other  five,  pockets  to 
be  picked. 

It  happened  that  the  Dunderbunk  Directors  were  all 
honest  and  foolish  but  one.  He,  John  Churm,  honest  and 
wise,  was  off  at  the  "West,  with  his  Herculean  shoulders  at 
the  wheels  of  a  dead-locked  railroad.  These  honest  fellows 
did  not  wish  Dunderbunk  to  fail  for  several  reasons.  First, 
it  was  not  pleasant  to  lose  their  investment.  Second,  one 
important  failure  might  betray  Credit  to  Crisis  with  Panic 
at  its  heels,  whereupon  every  investment  would  be  in 
danger.  Third,  what  would  become  of  their  Directorial 
reputations?  From  President  Brummage  down,  each  of 
these  gentlemen  was  one  of  the  pockets  to  be  picked  in  a 
great  many  companies.  Each  was  of  the  first  Wall-Street 
fashion,  invited  to  lend  his  name  and  take  stock  in  every 
new  enterprise.  Any  one  of  them  might  have  walked  down 
town  in  a  long  patchwork  toga  made  of  the  newspaper 
advertisements  of  boards  in  which  his  name  proudly  figured. 
If  Dunderbunk  failed,  the  toga  was  torn,  and  might  presently 
go  to  rags  beyond  repair.  The  first  rent  would  inaugurate 
universal  rupture.  How  to  avoid  this  disaster  ?  —  that  was 
the  question. 

"  State  the  case,  Mr.  Superintendent  WhifSer,"  said  Presi- 
dent Brummage,  in  his  pompous  manner,  with  its  pomp  a 
h'ttle  collapsed,  pro  tempore. 

Inefficient  TVliiffler  whimpered  out  his  story. 

The  confessions  of  an  impotent  executive  are  sorry  stuff 
to  read.  Whiffler's  long,  dismal  complaint  shall  not  be  re- 
peated. He  had  taken  a  prosperous  concern,  had  carried 
on  things  in  his  own  way,  and  now  failure  was  inevita- 


94  THEODORE  WINTHROP. 

ble.  He  had  bought  raw  material  lavishly,  and  worked 
it  badly  into  half-ripe  material,  which  nobody  wanted  to 
buy.  He  was  in  arrears  to  his  hands.  He  had  tried  to 
bully  them  when  they  asked  for  their  money.  They 
had  insulted  him,  and  threatened  to  knock  off  work,  unless 
they  were  paid  at  once.  "  A  set  of  horrid  ruffians,"  Whif- 
fler  said,  —  "  and  his  life  would  n't  be  safe  many  days  among 
them." 

"  Withdraw,  if  you  please,  Mr.  Superintendent,"  President 
Brummage  requested.  "  The  Board  will  discuss  measures 
of  relief." 

The  more  they  discussed,  the  more  consternation.  No- 
body said  anything  to  the  purpose,  except  Mr.  Sam  Gwelp, 
his  late  father's  lubberly  son  and  successor. 

"  Blast ! "  said  he  ;  "  we  shall  have  to  let  it  slide  ! " 

Into  this  assembly  of  imbeciles  unexpectedly  entered  Mr. 
John  Churm.  He  had  set  his  Western  railroad  trains 
rolling,  and  was  just  returned  to  town.  Now  he  wras  ready 
to  put  those  Herculean  shoulders  at  any  other  bemired  and 
rickety  no-gocart. 

Mr.  Churm  was  not  accustomed  to  be  a  Director  in 
feeble  companies.  He  came  into  Dunderbunk  recently  as 
executor  of  his  friend  Darner,  a  year  ago  bored  to  death  by 
a  silly  wife. 

Churm's  bristly  aspect  and  incisive  manner  made  him  a 
sharp  contrast  to  Brummage.  The  latter  personage  was 
flabby  in  flesh,  and  the  oppressively  civil  counter-jumper 
style  of  his  youth  had  grown  naturally  into  a  deportment  of 
most  imposing  pomposity. 

The  Tenth  Director  listened  to  the  President's  recitative 
of  their  difficulties,  chorused  by  the  Board. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  Director  Churm,  "  you  want  two 
things..  The  first  is  Money  ! " 

He  pronounced  this  cabalistic  word  with  such  magic 
power,  that  all  the  air  seemed  instantly  filled  with  a  cheer- 


LOVE   AND   SKATES.  95 

fill  flight  of  gold  American  eagles,  each  carrying  a  double 
eagle  on  its  back  and  a  silver  dollar  in  its  claws ;  and  all 
the  soil  of  America  seemed  to  sprout  with  com,  as  after  a 
shower  a  meadow  sprouts,  with  the  yellow  buds  of  the  dan- 
delion. 

"  Money  !  yes,  Money ! "  murmured  the  Directors. 

It  seemed  a  word  of  good  omen,  now. 

"  The  second  thing,"  resumed  the  new-comer,  "  is  a 
Alan ! " 

The  Directors  looked  at  each  other  and  did  not  see  such 
a  being. 

"  The  actual  Superintendent  of  Dunderbunk  is  a  dunder- 
head," said  Churm. 

"  Pun  !  *\  cried  Sam  Gwelp,  waking  up  from  a  snooze. 

Several  of  the  Directors,  thus  instructed,  started  a  com- 
plimentary laugh. 

"  Order,  gentlemen  !  Orrderr ! "  said  the  President,  severe- 
ly, rapping  with  a  paper-cutter. 

"We  must  have  a  Man,  not  a  Whiffler!"  Churm  con- 
tinued. "And  I  have  one  in  my  eye." 

Everybody  examined  his  eye. 

"  Would  you  be  so  good  as  to  name  him  ? "  said  Old 
Brummage,  timidly. 

He  wanted  to  see  a  Man,  but  feared  the  strange  creature 
might  be  dangerous. 

«  Richard  Wade,"  says  Churm. 

They  did  not  know  him.     The  name  sounded  forcible. 

"  He  has  been  in  California,"  the  nominator  said. 

A  shudder  ran  around  the  green  table.  They  seemed  to 
see  a  frowzy  desperado,  shaggy  as 'a  bison,  in  a  red  shirt 
and  jackboots,  hung  about  the  waist  with  an  assortment  of 
six-shooters  and  bowie-knives,  and  standing  against  a  back- 
ground of  mustangs,  monte-banks,  and  lynch-law. 

"We  must  get  Wade,"  Churm  says,  with  authority 
u  He  knows  Iron  by  heart.  He  can  handle  Men.  I  will 


96  THEODORE   WIXTHROP. 

back  him  with  my  blank  check,  to  any  amount,  to  his 
order." 

Here  a  murmur  of  applause,  swelling  to  a  cheer,  burst 
from  the  Directors. 

Everybody  knew  that  the  Geological  Bank  deemed 
Churm's  deposits  the  fundamental  stratum  of  its  wealth. 
They  lay  there  in  the  vaults,  like  underlying  granite. 
When  hot  times  came,  they  boiled  up  in  a  mountain  to 
buttress  the  world. 

Churm's  blank  check  seemed  to  wave  in  the  air  like  an 
oriflamme  of  victory.  Its  payee  might  come  from  Botany 
Bay;  he  might  wear  his  beard  to  his  knees,  and  his  belt 
stuck  full  of  howitzers  and  boomerangs;  he  might  have 
been  repeatedly  hung  by  Vigilance  Committees,  and  as 
often  cut  down  and  revived  by  galvanism  ;  but  brandishing 
that  check,  good  for  anything  less  than  a  million,  every 
Director  in  Wall  Street  was  his  slave,  his  friend,  and  his 
brother. 

"  Let  us  vote  Mr.  Wade  in  by  acclamation,"  cried  the 
Directors. 

"  But,  gentlemen,"  Churm  interposed,  "  if  I  give  him  my 
blank  check,  he  must  have  carte  blanche,  and  no  one  to 
interfere  in  his  management." 

Every  Director,  from  President  Brummage  down,  drew 
a  long  face  at  this  condition. 

It  was  one  of  their  great  privileges  to  potter  in  the  Dun- 
derbunk  affairs  and  propose  ludicrous  impossibilities. 

"  Just  as  you  please,"  Churm  continued.  "  I  name  a 
competent  man,  a  gentleman  and  fine  fellow.  I  back  him 
with  all  the  cash  he  wants.  But  he  must  have  his  own 
way.  Now  take  him,  or  leave  him  ! " 

Such  despotic  talk  had  never  been  heard  before  in  that 
Directors'  Room.  They  relucted  a  moment.  But  they 
thought  of  their  togas  of  advertisements  in  danger.  The 
blank  check  shook  its  blandishments  before  their  eyes. 


t 
LOVE  AND  SKATES.  97 

"  We  take  him,"  they  said,  and  Richard  Wade  was  the 
new  Superintendent  unanimously. 

"  He  shall  be  at  Dunderbunk  to  take  hold  to-morrow 
morning,"  said  Churm,  and  went  off  to  notify  him. 

Upon  this,  Consternation  sailed  out  of  the  hearts  of 
Brummage  and  associates. 

They  lunched  with  good  appetites  over  the  green  table, 
and  the  President  confidently  remarked, — 

"  I  don't  believe  there  is  going  to  be  much  of  a  crisis, 
after  all." 

CHAPTER    II. 

BARRACKS   FOR   THE   HERO. 

WADE  packed  his  kit,  and  took  the  Hudson  River  train 
for  Dunderbunk  the  same  afternoon. 

He  swallowed  his  dust,  he  gasped  for  his  fresh  air,  he 
wept  over  his  cinders,  he  refused  his  "  lozengers,"  he  was 
admired  by  all  the  pretty  girls  and  detested  by  all  the  puny 
men  in  the  train,  and  in  good  time  got  down  at  his  station. 

He  stopped  on  the  platform  to  survey  the  land  and  water 
privileges  of  his  new  abode. 

"  The  June  sunshine  is  unequalled,"  he  soliloquized,  "  the 
river  is  splendid,  the  hills  are  pretty,  and  the  Highlands, 
north,  respectable ;  but  the  village  has  gone  to  seed.  Place 
and  people  look  lazy,  vicious,  and  ashamed.  I  suppose 
those  chimneys  are  my  Foundry.  The  smoke  rises  as  if 
the  furnaces  were  ill-fed  and  weak  in  the  lungs.  Nothing 
I  can  see  looks  alive,  except  that  queer  little  steamboat 
coming  in,  —  the  *  I.  Ambuster,' — jolly  name  for  a  boat ! " 

Wade  left  his  traps  at  the  station,  and  walked  through 
the  village.  All  the  gilding  of  a  golden  sunset  of  June 
could  not  made  it  anything  but  commonplace.  It  would  be 
forlorn  on  a  gray  day,  and  utterly  dismal  in  a  storm. 

"  I  must  look  up  a  civilized  house  to  lodge  in,"  thought 
7 


96  TiiEODOKK  wixntuor. 


the  stranger.  "  I  cannot  possibly  camp  at  the  tavern.  Its 
otVeiu-o  is  rum,  and  smells  to  heaven." 

Presently  our  explorer  found  a  neat,  white,  two-story, 
home-like  abode  on  the  upper  street,  overlooking  the  river 

"This  promises,"  he  thought.  "Here  are  rosrs  on  the 
porch,  a  piano,  or  at  least  a  melodeon,  by  the  parlor-window, 
and  they  are  insured  in  the  Mutual,  as  the  Mutual's  plate 
announces.  Now,  it'  that  nice-looking  person  in  Mack  I  >ee 
setting  a  table  in  the  back-room  is  a  widow,  1  will  camp 
here." 

Perry  Purtett  was  the  name  on  the  door,  and  opposite 
the  sign  of  an  omnhun-gatkfrum  country-store  hinted  that 
Perry  was  deceased.  The  hint  was  a  broad  one.  Wade 
read,  "  Ringdove.  Successor  to  late  P.  Purktt." 

"  It  's  worth  a  try  to  get  in  here  out  of  the  pagan  barba- 
rism around.  I  '11  propose  —  as  a  lodger  —  to  the  widow." 

So  said  Wade,  and  rang  the  bell  under  the  roses.  A 
pretty,  slim,  delicate,  fair-haired  maiden  answered. 

"  This  explains  the  roses  and  the  melodeon,"  thought 
Wade,  and  asked,  ••  Can  1  see  your  mother  ?  " 

Mamma  came.  -  Mild,  timid,  accustomed  to  depend  on 
the  late  Perry,  and  wants  a  friend."  Wade  analyzed,  while 
he  bowed.  He  proposed  himself  as  a  lodger. 

"  1  did  n't  know  it  was  talked  of  generally,"  replied  the 
widow,  plaintively  ;  "  but  I  /tare  said  that  we  felt  lonesome, 
Mr.  Purtett  bein'  gone,  and  if  the  new  minister  —  " 

Here  she  paused.  The  cut  of  Wade's  jib  was  nnelerical. 
He  did  not  stoop,  like  a  new  minister,  lie  was  not  pallid, 
meagre,  and  clad  in  unwholesome  black,  like  the  same. 
His  bronzed  face  was  frank  and  bold  and  unfamiliar  with 
speculations  on  Original  Sin  or  Total  Depravity. 

"  I  am  not  the  new  minister,"  said  Wade,  smiling  slightly 
over  his  moustache  ;  u  but  a  new  Superintendent  for  the 
Foundry." 

«  Mr.  Wliiffler  is  goin'  ?  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Purtett,     She 


LOVE  AND  SKATES.  99 

looked  at  her  daughter,  who  gave  a  little  sob  and  ran  out  of 
the  room. 

"What  makes  my  daughter  Belle  feel  bad,"  says  the 
widow,  "  is,  that  she  had  a  friend,  —  well,  it  is  n't  too  much 
to  say  that  they  was  as  good  as  engaged,  —  and  he  was 
foreman  of  the  Foundry  finishin'-shop.  But  somehow 
Whiffler  spoilt  him,  just  as  he  spoils  everything  he  touches ; 
and  last  winter,  when  Belle  was  away,  William  Tarbox  — 
that 's  his  name,  and  his  head  is  runnin'  over  with  inven- 
tions—  took  to  spreein'  and  liquor,  and  got  ashamed  of 
himself,  and  let  down  from  a  foreman  to  a  hand,  and  is  all 
the  while  lettin'  down  lower." 

The  widow's  heart  thus  opened,  Wade  walked  in  as  con- 
soler. This  also  opened  the  lodgings  to  him.  He  was 
presently  installed  in  the  large  and  small  front-rooms  up- 
stairs, unpacking  his  traps,  and  making  himself  permanently 
at  home. 

Superintendent  Whiffler  came  over,  by  and  by,  to  see  his 
successor.  He  did  not  like  his  looks.  The  new  man 
should  have  looked  mean  or  weak  or  rascally,  to  suit  the 
outgoer. 

"  How  long  do  you  expect  to  stay  ?  "  asks  Whiffler,  with 
a  half-sneer,  watching  Wade  hanging  a  map  and  a  print 
vis-a-vis. 

"  Until  the  men  and  I,  or  the  Company  and  I,  cannot 
pull  together." 

"  I  '11  give  you  a  week  to  quarrel  with  both,  and  another 
to  see  the  whole  concern  go  to  everlasting  smash.  And 
now,  if  you  're  ready,  I  '11  go  over  the  accounts  with  you 
and  prove  it." 

Whiffler  himself,  insolent,  cowardly,  and  a  humbug,  if  not 
a  swindler,  was  enough,  Wade  thought,  to  account  for  any 
failure.  But  he  did  not  mention  this  conviction. 


100  THEODORE   WINTHROP. 

CHAPTER    III. 

HOW   TO   BEHEAD   A   HYDRA! 

AT  ten  next  morning,  Whiffler  handed  over  the  safe-key 
to  Wade,  and  departed  to  ruin  some  other  property,  if  he 
could  get  one  to  ruin.  Wade  walked  with  him  to  the 
e^ite. 

"  I'm  glad  to  be  out  of  a  sinking  ship,"  said  the  ex -boss. 
"  The  works  will  go  down,  sure  as  shooting.  And  I  think 
myself  well  out  of  the  clutches  of  these  men.  They  're  a 
bullying,  swearing,  drinking  set  of  infernal  ruffians.  Fore- 
men are  just  as  bad  as  hands.  I  never  felt  safe  of  my  life 
with  'em." 

"  A  bad  lot,  are  they  ?  "  mused  Wade,  as  he  returned  to 
the  office.  "  I  must  give  them  a  little  sharp  talk  by  way  of 
Inaugural." 

He  had  the  bell  tapped  and  the  men  called  together  hi 
the  main  building. 

Much  work  was  still  going  on  in  an  inefficient,  unsyste- 
matic way. 

While  hot  fires  were  roaring  in  the  great  furnaces,  smoke 
rose  from  the  dusty  beds  where  Titanic  castings  were  cool- 
ing. Great  cranes,  manacled  with  heavy  chains,  stood  over 
the  furnace-doors,  ready  to  lift  steaming  jorums  of  melted 
metal,  and  pour  out,  hot  and  hot,  for  the  moulds  to  swallow. 

Raw  material  in  big  heaps  lay  about,  waiting  for  the  fire 
to  ripen  it.  Here  was  a  stack  of  long,  rough,  rusty  pigs, 
clumsy  as  the  shillelahs  of  the  Anakim.  There  was  a  pile 
of  short,  thick  masses,  lying  higgledy-piggledy,  stuff  from 
the  neighboring  mines,  which  needed  to  be  crossed  with 
foreign  stock  before  it  could  be  of  much  use  in  civiliza- 
tion. 

Here,  too,  was  raw  material  organized  :  a  fly-wheel,  large 
enough  to  keep  the  knobbiest  of  asteroids  revolving  without 


LOVE  AND  SKATES.  101 

a  wabble  ;  a  cross-head,  cross-tail,  and  piston-rod,  to  help  a 
great  sea-going  steamer  breast  the  waves  ;  a  light  walking- 
beam,  to  whirl  the  paddles  of  a  fast  boat  on  the  river ;  and 
other  members  of  machines,  only  asking  to  be  put  together 
and  vivified  by  steam  and  they  would  go  at  their  work  with 
a  will. 

From  the  black  rafters  overhead  hung  the  heavy  folds  of 
a  dim  atmosphere,  half  dust,  hah0  smoke.  A  dozen  sun- 
beams, forcing  their  way  through  the  grimy  panes  of  the 
grimy  upper  windows,  found  this  compound  quite  palpable 
and  solid,  and  they  moulded  out  of  it  a  series  of  golden  bars 
set  side  by  side  aloft,  like  the  pipes  of  an  organ  out  of  ifo» 
perpendicular. 

"Wade  grew  indignant,  as  he  looked  about  him  and  saw  so 
much  good  stuff  and  good  force  wasting  for  want  of  a  little 
will  and  skill  to  train  the  force  and  manage  the  stuff.  He 
abhorred  bankruptcy  and  chaos. 

"All  they  want  here  is  a  head,"  he  thought. 

He  shook  his  own.  The  brain  within  was  well  developed 
with  healthy  exercise.  It  filled  its  case,  and  did  not  rattle 
like  a  withered  kernel,  or  sound  soft  like  a  rotten  one.  It 
was  a  vigorous,  muscular  brain.  The  owner  felt  that  he 
could  trust  it  for  an  effort,  as  he  could  his  lungs  for  a  shout, 
his  legs  for  a  leap,  or  his  fist  for  a  knock-down  argument. 

At  the  tap  of  the  bell,  the  "  bad  lot "  of  men  came  *o 
gether.  They  numbered  more  than  two  hundred,  though 
the  Foundry  was  working  short.  They  had  been  notified 
that  ••  that  gonoph  of  a  Whiffler  was  kicked  out,  and  a  new- 
feller  was  in,  who  looked  cranky  enough,  and  wanted  to  see 
'em  and  tell  'em  whether  he  was  a  damn'  fool  or  not." 

So  all  hands  collected  from  the  different  parts  of  the 
Foundry  to  see  the  head. 

They  came  up  with  easy  and  somewhat  swaggering  bear- 
ing,—  a  good  many  roughs,  with  here  and  there  a  ruffian. 
Several,  as  they  approached,  swung  and  tossed,  for  mere 


102  THEODORE   WINTHROP. 

overplus  of  strength,  the  sledges  with  which  they  had  been 
tapping  at  the  bald  shiny  pates  of  their  anvils.  Several 
wielded  their  long  pokers  like  lances. 

Grimy  chaps,  all  with  their  faces  streaked,  like  Blackfeet 
in  their  war-paint.  Their  hairy  chests  showed,  where  some 
men  parade  elaborate  shirt-bosoms.  Some  had  their  sleeves 
pushed  up  to  the  elbow  to  exhibit  their  compact  flexors  and 
extensors.  Some  had  rolled  their  flannel  up  to  the  shoul- 
der, above  the  bulging  muscles  of  tfie  upper  arm.  They 
wore  aprons  tied  about  the  neck,  like  the  bibs  of  our  child- 
hood,—  or  about  the  waist,  like  the  coquettish  articles  which 
young  housewives  affect.  But  there  was  no  coquetry  in 
these  great  flaps  of  leather  or  canvas,  and  they  were  be- 
smeared and  rust-stained  quite  beyond  any  bib  that  ever 
suffered  under  bread-and-molasses  or  mud-pie  treatment. 

They  lounged  and  swaggered  up,  and  stood  at  ease,  not 
without  rough  grace,  in  a  sinuous  line,  coiled  and  knotted 
like  a  snake. 

Ten  feet  back  stood  the  new  Hercules  who  was  to  take 
down  that  Hydra's  two  hundred  crests  of  insubordination. 

They  inspected  him,  and  he  them  as  coolly.  He  read 
and  ticketed  each  man,  as  he  came  up,  —  good,  bad,  or  on 
the  fence,  —  and  marked  each  so  that  he  would  know  him 
among  a  myriad. 

The  Hands  faced  the  Head.  It  was  a  question  whether 
the  two  hundred  or  the  one  would  be  master  in  Dunderbunk. 

Which  was  boss  ?  An  old  question.  It  has  to  be  settled 
whenever  a  new  man  claims  power,  and  there  is  always  a 
struggle  until  it  is  fought  out  by  main  force  of  brain  or 
muscle. 

Wade  had  made  up  his  mind  on  this  subject.  He  waited 
a  moment  until  the  men  were  still.  He  was  a  Saxon  six- 
footer  of  thirty.  He  stood  easily  on  his  pins,  as  if  he  had 
eyed  men  and  facts  before.  His  mouth  looked  firm,  his 
brow  freighted,  his  nose  clipper,  —  that  the  hands  could  see. 


LOVE  AND  SKATES.  103 

But  clipper  noses  are  not  always  backed  by  a  stout  hull. 
Seemingly  freighted  brows  sometimes  carry  nothing  but  bal- 
last and  dunnage.  The  firmness  may  be  all  in  the  mous- 
tache, while  the  mouth  hides  beneath,  a  mere  silly  slit.  All 
which  the  hands  knew. 

Wade  began,  short  and  sharp  as  a  trip-hammer,  when  it 
has  a  bar  to  shape. 

"I'm  the  new  Superintendent.  Richard  Wade  is  my 
name.  I  rang  the  bell  because  I  wanted  to  see  you  and 
have  you  see  me.  You  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  these 
Works  are  in  a  bad  way.  They  can't  stay  so.  They  must 
come  up  and  pay  you  regular  wages  and  the  Company 
profits.  Every  man  of  you  has  got  to  be  here  on  the  spot 
when  the  bell  strikes,  and  up  to  the  mark  in  his  work.  You 
have  n't  been,  —  and  you  know  it.  You  Ve  turned  out  rot- 
ten iron,  —  stuff  that  any  honest  shop  would  be  ashamed  o£ 
Now  there 's  to  be  a  new  leaf  turned  over  here.  You  're  to 
be  paid  on  the  nail ;  but  you  've  got  to  earn  your  money. 
I  won't  have  any  idlers  or  shirkers  or  rebels  about  me.  I 
shall  work  hard  myself,  and  every  man  of  you  will,  or  he 
leaves  the  shop.  Now,  if  anybody  has  a  complaint  to  make, 
I'll  hear  him  before  you  all." 

The  men  were  evidently  impressed  with  Wade's  Inaugu- 
ral. It  meant  something.  But  they  were  not  to  be  put 
down  so  easily,  after  long  misrule.  There  began  to  be  a 
whisper,  — 

"B'il  in,  Bill  Tarbox!  and  talk  up  to  him!" 

Presently  Bill  shouldered  forward  and  faced  the  new 
ruler. 

Since  Bill  took  to  drink  and  degradation,  he  had  been  the 
but-end  of  riot  and  revolt  at  the  Foundry.  He  had  had  his 
own  way  with  Whiffler.  He  did  not  like  to  abdicate  and 
give  in  to  this  new  chap  without  testing  him. 

In  a  better  mood,  Bill  would  have  liked  Wade's  looks 
and  words ;  but  to-day  he  liad  a  sore  head,  a  sour  face,  and 


104  THEODORE   WINTHROP. 

a  bitter  heart,  from  last  night's  spree.  And  then  he  had 
heard,  —  it  was  as  well  known  already  in  Dunderbunk  as  if 
the  town-crier  had  cried  it,  —  that  Wade  was  lodging  at 
Mrs.  Purtett's,  where  poor  Bill  was  excluded.  So  Bill 
stepped  forward  as  spokesman  of  the  ruffianly  element,  and 
the  immoral  force  gathered  behind  and  backed  him  heavily. 

Tarbox,  too,  was  a  Saxon  six-footer  of  thirty.  But  he 
had  sagged  one  inch  for  want  of  self-respect.  He  had 
spoilt  his  color  and  dyed  his  moustache.  He  wore  foxy- 
black  pantaloons  tucked  into  red-topped  boots,  with  the 
name  of  the  maker  on  a  gilt  shield.  His  red-flannel  shirt 
was  open  at  the  neck  and  caught  with  a  black  handkerchief. 
His  damaged  tile  was  in  permanent  crape  for  the  late  la- 
mented Poole. 

"  We  allow,"  says  Bill,  in  a  tone  half-way  between  La- 
b'lache's  De  profundis  and  a  burglar's  bull-dog's  snarl, 
"  that  we  Ve  did  our  work  as  good  as  need  to  be  did.  We 
'xpect  we  know  our  rights.  We  ha'n't  ben  treated  fair,  and 
I  'm  damned  if  we  're  go'n'  to  stan'  it." 

"  Stop  !  "  says  Wade.     "  No  swearing  in  this  shop  ! " 

u  Who  the  Devil  is  go'n'  to  stop  it  ?  "  growled  Tarbox. 

"  I  am.  Do  you  step  back  now,  and  let  some  one  come 
out  who  can  talk  like  a  gentleman  !  " 

"  I  'm  damned  if  I  stir  till  I  Ve  had  my  say  out,"  says 
Bill,  shaking  himself  up  and  looking  dangerous. 

"  Go  back  ! " 

Wade  moved  close  to  him,  also  looking  dangerous. 

"  Don't  tech  me ! "     Bill  threatened,  squaring  off. 

He  was  not  quick  enough.  Wade  knocked  him  down  flat 
on  a  heap  of  moulding-sand.  The  hat  in  mourning  for 
Poole  found  its  place  in  a  puddle. 

Bill  did  not  like  the  new  Emperor's  method  of  compel- 
ling kotou.  Round  One  of  the  mill  had  not  given  him 
enough. 

He  jumped  up  from  his  soft  bed  and  made  a  vicious  rush 


LOVE  AND  SKATES,  105 

at  Wade.  But  he  was  damaged  by  evil  courses.  He  was 
fighting  against  law  and  order,  on  the  side  of  wrong  and 
bad  manners. 

The  same  fist  met  him  again,  and  heavier. 

Up  went  his  heels !  Down  went  his  head !  It  struck 
the  ragged  edge  of  a  fresh  casting,  and  there  he  lay  stunned 
and  bleeding  on  his  hard  black  pillow. 

"  Ring  the  bell  to  go  to  work !  "  said  Wade,  in  a  tone  that 
made  the  ringer  jump.  4<  Now,  men,  teike  hold  and  do  your 
duty  and  everything  will  go  smooth  ! " 

The  bell  clanged  in.  The  line  looked  at  its  prostrate 
champion,  then  at  the  new  boss  standing  there,  cool  and 
brave,  and  not  afraid  of  a  regiment  of  sledge-hammers. 

They  wanted  an  Executive.  They  wanted  to  be  well 
governed,  as  all  men  do.  They  wanted  disorder  out  and 
order  in.  The  new  man  looked  like  a  man,  talked  fair,  hit 
hard.  Why  not  all  hands  give  in  with  a  good  grace  and  go 
to  work  like  honest  fellows  ? 

The  line  broke  up.  The  hands  went  off  to  their  duty. 
And  there  was  never  any  more  insubordination  at  Dunder- 
bunk.  • 

This  was  June. 

Skates  in  the  next  chapter. 

Love  in  good  time  afterward  shall  glide  upon  the  scene. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

A   CHRISTMAS    GIFT. 

THE  pioneer  sunbeam  of  next  Christmas  morning  rattled 
over  the  Dunderbunk  hills,  flashed  into  Richard  Wade's 
eyes,  waked  him,  and  was  off,  ricochetting  across  the  black 
ice  of  the  river. 

Wade  jumped  up,  electrified  and  jubilant.  He  |jad  gone 
to  bed  feeling  quite  too  despondent  for  so  healthy  a  fellcw. 


106  THEODORE  WINTHROP. 

Christmas  eve,  the  time  of  family  meetings,  reminded  him 
how  lonely  he  was.  He  had  not  a  relative  in  the  we  rid, 
except  two  little  nieces,  —  one  as  tall  as  his  knee,  the  other 
almost  up  to  his  waist ;  and  them  he  had  safely  bestowed  in 
a  nook  of  New  England,  to  gain  wit  and  virtues,  as  they 
gained  inches. 

"  I  have  had  a  stern  and  lonely  life,"  thought  "Wade,  as 
he  blew  out  his  candle  last  night,  "  and  what  has  it  profited 
me?" 

Perhaps  the  pioneer  sunbeam  answered  this  question  with 
a  truism,  not  always  as  applicable  as  in  this  case,  —  "A 
brave,  able,  self-respecting  manhood  is  fair  profit  for  any 
man's  first  thirty  years  of  life." 

But,  answered  or  not,  the  question  troubled  Wade  no 
more.  He  shot  out  of  bed  in  tip-top  spirits;  shouted 
"  Merry  Christmas  ! "  at  the  rising  disk  of  the  sun ;  looked 
over  the  black  ice  ;  thrilled  with  the  thought  of  a  long  holi- 
day for  skating ;  and  proceeded  to  dress  in  a  knowing  suit 
of  rough  clothes,  singing,  "Ah,  non  giunge  !  "  as  he  slid  into 
them. 

Presently,  glancing  from  his  south  window,  he  observed 
several  matinal  smokes  rising  from  the  chimneys  of  a 
country-house  a  mile  away,  on  a  slope  fronting  the  river. 

"  Peter  Skerrett  must  be  back  from  Europe  at  last,"  he 
thought.  "  I  hope  he  is  as  fine  a  fellow  as  he  was  ten  years 
ago.  I  hope  marriage  has  not  made  him  a  muff,  and  wealth 
a  weakling." 

Wade  went  down  to  breakfast  with  an  heroic  appetite. 
His  "  Merry  Christmas  "  to  Mrs.  Purtett  was  followed  up 
by  a  ravished  kiss  and  the  gift  of  a  silver  butter-knife. 
The  good  widow  did  not  know  which  to  be  most  charmed 
with.  The  butter-knife  was  genuine,  shining,  solid  silver, 
with  her  initials,  M.  B.  P.,  Martha  Bilsby  Purtett,  given  in 
luxuriant  flourishes ;  but  then  the  kiss  had  such  a  fine 
twang,  such  an  exhilarating  titillation !  The  late  Perry's 


LOVE  AND   SKATES.  107 

.  from  fiist  to  last,  had  wanted  point.  They  were,  as 
the  Spanish  proverb  would  put  it,  unsavory  as  unsalted 
eggs,  for  want  of  a  moustache.  The  widow  now  perceived, 
with  mild  regret,  how  much  she  had  missed  when  she  mar- 
ried "  a  man  nil  shaven  and  shorn."  Her  cheek,  still  fair, 
though  forty,  flushed  with  novel  delight,  and  she  appreciated 
her  lodger  more  than  ever. 

Wade's  salutation  to  Belle  Purtett  was  more  distant 
There  must  be  a  little  friendly  reserve  between  a  hand- 
some young  man  and  a  pretty  young  woman  several  grades 
lower  in  the  social  scale,  living  in  the  same  house.  They 
were  on  the  most  cordial  terms,  however ;  and  her  gift  —  of 
course  embroidered  slippers  —  and  his  to  her  —  of  course 
"The  Illustrated  Poets,"  in  Turkey  morocco  —  were  ex- 
changed with  tender  good-will  on  both  sides. 

"  We  shall  meet  on  the  ice,  Miss  Belle,"  said  Wade.  "  It 
is  a  day  of  a  thousand  for  skating." 

"  Mr.  Ringdove  says  you  are  a  famous  skater,"  Belle 
rejoined.  "  He  saw  you  on  the  river  yesterday  evening." 

ki  Yes  ;  Tarbox  and  I  were  practising  to  exhibit  to-day  ; 
but  I  could  not  do  much  with  my  dull  old  skates." 

Wade  breakfasted  deliberately,  as  a  holiday  morning 
allowed,  and  then  walked  down  to  the  Foundry.  There 
would  be  no  work  done  to-day,  except  by  a  small  gang 
keeping  up  the  fires.  The  Superintendent  wished  only  to 
give  his  First  Semi-Annual  Report  an  hour's  polishing, 
before  he  joined  all  Dunderbunk  on  the  ice. 

It  was  a  halcyon  day,  worthy  of  its  motto,  "  Peace  on 
earth,  good-will  to  men."  The  air  was  electric,  the  sun 
overflowing  with  jolly  shine,  the  river  smooth  and  sheeny 
from  the  hither  bank  to  the  snowy  mountains  opposite. 

"  I  wish  I  were  Rembrandt,  to  paint  this  grand  shadowy 
interior,"  thought  Wade,  as  he  entered  the  silent,  deserted 
Foundry.  "  With  the  gleam  of  the  snow  in  my  eyes,  it 
looks  deliciously  warm  and  chiaroscuro.  When  the  men 


108  THEODORE   WIXT1IROP. 

are  here  and  lfervet  opus,  —  the  pot  boils,  —  I  cannot  stop 
to  see  the  picturesque." 

He  opened  his  office,  took  his  Report  and  began  to  com- 
plete it  with  ,s,  ;s,  and  .s  in  the  right  places. 

All  at  once  the  bell  of  the  Works  rang  out  loud  and 
clear.  Presently  the  Superintendent  became  aware  of  a 
tramp  and  a  bustle  in  the  building.  By  and  by  came  a  tap 
at  the  office-door. 

"  Come  in,"  said  Wade,  and  enter  young  Perry  Purtett. 

Perry  was  a  boy  of  fifteen,  with  hair  the  color  of  fresh 
sawdust,  white  eyebrows,  and  an  uncommonly  wide-awake 
look.  Ringdove,  his  father's  successor,  could  never  teach 
Perry  the  smirk,  the  grace,  and  the  seductiveness  of  the 
counter,  so  the  boy  had  found  his  place  in  the  finishing-shop 
of  the  Foundry. 

"  Some  of  the  hands  would  like  to  see  you  for  half  a 
jiff,  Mr.  Wade,"  said  he.  "  Will  you  come  along,  if  you 
please?" 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  easy  swagger  about  Perry,  as 
there  is  always  in  boys  and  men  whose  business  is  to  watch 
the  lunging  of  steam-engines.  Wade  followed  him.  Perry 
led  the  way  with  a  jaunty  air  that  said,  — 

"  Room  here  !  Out  of  the  way,  you  lubberly  bits  of  cast- 
iron  !  Be  careful,  now,  you  big  derricks,  or  I  '11  walk  right 
over  you  !  Room  now  for  Me  and  My  suite  ! " 

This  pompous  usher  conducted  the  Superintendent  to  the 
very  spot  in  the  main  room  of  the  Works  where,  six  months 
before,  the  Inaugural  had  been  pronounced  and  the  first 
Veto  spoken  and  enacted. 

And  there,  as  six  months  before,  stood  the  Hands  await- 
ing their  Head.  But  the  aprons,  the  red  shirts,  and  the 
grime  of  working-days  were  off,  and  the  whole  were  in  holi- 
day rig,  —  as  black  and  smooth  and  shiny  from  top  to  toe  as 
the  members  of  a  Congress  of  Undertakers. 

Wade,  following  in  the  wake  of  Perry,  took  his  stand 


LOVE  AND   SKATES.  109 

feeing  the  rank,  and  waited  to  see  what  he  was  summoned 
for.  He  had  not  long  to  wait. 

To  the  front  stepped  Mr.  William  Tarbox,  foreman  of  the 
finishing-shop,  no  longer  a  bhoy,  but  an  erect,  fine-looking 
fellow,  with  no  nitrate  in  his  moustache,  and  his  hat  perma- 
nently out  of  mourning  for  the  late  Mr.  Poole. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  Bill,  "  I  move  that  this  meeting  organ- 
ize by  appointing  Mr.  Smith  Wheelright  Chairman.  As 
many  as  are  in  favor  of  this  motion,  please  to  say,  '  Ay.' " 

"  Ay ! "  said  the  crowd,  very  loud  and  big.  And  then 
every  man  looked  at  his  neighbor  a  little  abashed,  as  if  he 
himself  had  made  all  the  noise. 

"  This  is  a  free  country,"  continues  Bill.  u  Every  woter 
has  a  right  to  a  fair  shake.  Contrary  minds,  *  No.' " 

No  contrary  minds.  The  crowd  uttered  a  great  silence. 
Every  man  looked  at  his  neighbor,  surprised  to  find  how 
well  they  agreed. 

"  Unanimous  I "  Tarbox  pronounced.  "  No  fractious  mi- 
norities here,  to  block  the  wheels  of  legislation  ! " 

The  crowd  burst  into  a  roar  at  this  significant  remark,  and, 
again  abashed,  dropped  portcullis  on  its  laughter,  cutting  off 
the  flanks  and  tail  of  the  sound. 

k-  Mr.  Purtett,  will  you  please  conduct  the  Chairman  to 
the  Chair,"  says  Bill,  very  stately. 

"  Make  way  here  ! "  cried  Perry,  with  the  manner  of  a 
man  seven  feet  high.  "  Step  out  now,  Mr.  Chairman  ! " 

He  took  a  big,  grizzled,  docile-looking  fellow  patro- 
nizingly by  the  arm,  led  him  forward,  and  chaired  him  on 
a  large  cylinder-head,  in  the  rough,  just  hatched  out  of  its 
mould. 

"  Bang  away  with  that,  and  sing  out  '  Silence  ! ' "  says  the 
knowing  boy,  handing  Wheelright  an  iron  bolt,  and  taking 
his  place  beside  him  as  prompter. 

The  docile  Chairman  obeyed.  At  his  breaking  silence  by 
hooting  "  Silence  ! "  the  audience  had  another  mighty  bob- 
tailed  laugh. 


110  THEODORE  WINTHROP. 

"  Say,  '  Will  some  honorable  member  state  the  object  of 
this  meeting?'"  whispered  the  prompter. 

"  Will  some  honorable  mumbler  state  the  subject  of  this 
'ere  meetin'  ?  "  says  Chair,  a  little  bashful  and  confused. 

Bill  Tarbox  advanced,  and,  with  a  formal  bow,  began,  — 

"Mr.  Chan-man  —  " 

"  Say,  *  Mr.  Tarbox  has  the  floor,' "  piped  Perry. 

"  Mr.  Tarbox  has  the  floor,"  diapasoned  the  Chair. 

"  Mr.  Chairman  and  Gentlemen  — "  Bill  began,  and 
stopped. 

u  Say,  '  Proceed,  Sir  ! ' "  suggested  Perry,  which  the 
senior  did,  magnifying  the  boy's  whisper  a  dozen  times. 

Again  Bill  began  and  stopped. 

"  Boys,"  said  he,  dropping  grandiloquence,  "  when  I 
accepted  the  office  of  Orator  of  the  Day  at  our  primary, 
and  promised  to  bring  forward  our  Resolutions  in  honor  of 
Mr.  Wade  with  my  best  speech,  I  did  n't  think  I  was 
going  to  have  such  a  head  of  steam  on  that  the  waives 
would  get  stuck  and  the  piston  jammed  and  I  could  n't 
say  a  word. 

"  But,"  he  continued,  warming  up,  "  when  I  think  of  the 
Indian  powwow  we  had  in  this  very  spot  six  months  ago,  — 
and  what  a  mean  bloat  I  was,  going  to  the  stub-tail  dogs 
with  my  hat  over  my  eyes,  —  and  what  a  hard  lot  we  were 
all  round,  livin'  on  nothin'  but  argee  whiskey,  and  rampin' 
off  on  benders,  instead  of  makin'  good  iron,  —  and  how  the 
Works  was  flat  broke,  —  and  how  Dunderbunk  was  full  of 
women  crying  over  their  husbands  and  mothers  ashamed  of 
their  sons,  —  boys,  when  I  think  how  things  was,  and  see 
how  they  are,  and  look  at  Mr.  Wade  standing  there  like 
a  —  " 

Bill  hesitated  for  a  comparison. 

"  Like  a  thousand  of  brick,"  Perry  Purtett  suggested, 
sotto  voce. 

The  Chairman  took  this  as  a  hint  to  himself 


LOVE  AND   SKATES.  Ill 

u  Like  a  thousand  of  brick,"  he  said,  with  the  voice  of  a 
Stentor. 

Here  the  audience  roared  and  cheered,  and  the  Orator 
got  a  fresh  start. 

"  When  you  came,  Mr.  Wade,"  he  resumed,  "  we  was 
about  sick  of  putty-heads  and  sneaks  that  did  n't  know 
enough  or  did  n't  dare  to  make  us  stand  round  and  bone 
IL.  You  walked  in,  b'ilin'  over  with  grit.  You  took  hold 
as  if  you  belonged  here.  You  made  things  jump  like  a 
two-headed  tarrier.  All  we  wanted  was  a  live  man,  to  say, 
*  Here,  boys,  all  together  now  !  You  Ve  got  your  stint,  and 
I  've  got  mine.  I  'm  boss  in  this  shop,  —  but  I  can't  do  the 
first  thing,  unless  every  man  pulls  his  pound.  Now,  then, 
my  hand  is«m  the  throttle,  grease  the  wheels,  oil  the  waives, 
poke  the  fires,  hook  on,  and  let 's  yank  her  through  with  a 
will!'" 

At  this  figure  the  meeting  showed  a  tendency  to  cheer. 
u  Silence  ! "  Perry  sternly  suggested.  "  Silence  ! "  repeated 
the  Chair. 

"  Then,"  continued  the  Orator,  "  you  was  n't  one  of  the 
uneasy  kind,  always  fussin'  and  cussin'  round.  You  was  n't 
always  spyin'  to  see  we  did  n't  take  home  a  cross-tail  or  a 
hundred-weight  of  cast-iron  in  our  pants'  pockets,  or  go  to 
swiggin'  hot  metal  out  of  the  ladles  on  the  sly." 

Here  an  enormous  laugh  requited  Bill's  joke.  Perry 
prompted,  the  Chair  banged  with  his  bolt  and  cried, 
"Order!" 

"  Well,  now,  boys,"  Tarbox  went  on,  "  what  has  come  ol 
having  one  of  the  right  sort  to  be  boss  ?  Why,  this.  The 
Works  go  ahead,  stiddy  as  the  North  River.  We  work  full 
time  and  full-handed.  We  turn  out  stuff  that  no  shop 
needs  to  be  ashamed  of.  Wages  is  on  the  nail.  We  have 
a  good  time  generally.  How  is  that,  boys, — Mr.  Chair- 
man and  Gentlemen?" 

"  That 's  so  ! "  from  everybody. 


112  THEODORE  WINTHROP. 

"And  there's  something  better  yet,"  Bill  resumed. 
"  Dunderbunk  used  to  be  full  of  crying  women.  They  've 
stopped  crying  now." 

Here  the  whole  assemblage,  Chairman  and  all,  burst  into 
an  irrepressible  cheer. 

"  But  I  'm  making  my  speech  as  long  as  a  lightning-rod/' 
said  the  speaker.  "  I  '11  put  on  the  brakes,  short.  I  guess 
Mr.  Wade  understands  pretty  well,  now,  how  we  feel ;  and 
if  he  don't,  here  it  all  is  in  shape,  in  this  document,  with 
'  Whereas '  at  the  top  and  '  Resolved '  entered  along  down 
in  five  places.  Mr.  Purtett,  will  you  hand  the  Resolutions 
to  the  Superintendent?" 

Perry  advanced  and  did  his  office  loftily,  much  to  the 
amusement  of  Wade  and  the  workmen. 

"  Now,"  Bill  resumed,  "  we  wanted,  besides,  to  make  you 
a  little  gift,  Mr.  Wade,  to  remember  the  day  by.  So  we  got 
up  a  subscription,  and  every  man  put  in  his  dime.  Here  's 
the  present,  —  hand  'em  over,  Perry ! 

"  There,  Sir,  is  THE  BEST  PAIR  OF  SKATES  to  be  had  in 
York  City,  made  for  work,  and  no  nonsense  about  'em. 
We  Dunderbunk  boys  give  'em  to  you,  one  for  all,  and  hope 
you  '11  like  'em  and  beat  the  world  skating,  as  you  do  in  all 
the  things  we  've  knowed  you  try. 

"  Now,  boys,"  Bill  perorated,  "  before  I  retire  to  the 
shades  of  private  life,  I  motion  we  give  Three  Cheers, — 
regular  Toplifters,  —  for  Richard  Wade  ! " 

"  Hurrah !  Wade  and  Good  Government !  "  "  Hurrah ! 
Wade  and  Prosperity ! "  "  Hurrah !  Wade  and  the  Women's 
Tears  Dry ! " 

Cheers  like  the  shout  of  Achilles !  Wielding  sledges  is 
good  for  the  bellows,  it  appears.  Toplifters!  Why,  the 
§moky  black  rafters  overhead  had  to  tug  hard  to  hold  the 
roof  on.  Hurrah !  From  eveiy  corner  of  the  vast  build- 
ing came  back  rattling  echoes.  The  Works,  the  machinery, 
the  furnaces,  the  stuff,  all  had  their  voice  to  add  to  the 
verdict. 


LOVE  AND  SKATES.  113 

Magnificent  music !  and  our  Anglo-Saxon  is  the  onAy  race 
in  the  world  civilized  enough  to  join  in  singing  it.  We  are 
the  only  hurrahing  people,  —  the  only  brood  hatched  in  a 
"  Hurrah's  nest." 

Silence  restored,  the  Chairman,  prompted  by  Perry,  said, 
"  Gentlemen,  ]NIr.  Wade  has  the  floor  for  a  few  remarks." 

Of  course  Wade  had  to  speak,  and  did.  He  would  not 
have  been  an  American  in  America  else.  But  his  heart 
was  too  full  to  say  more  than  a  few  hearty  and  earnest 
words  of  good  feeling. 

"  Now,  men,"  he  closed,  "  I  want  to  get  away  on  the  rivei 
and  see  if  my  skates  will  go  as  they  look ;  so  I  '11  end  bj 
proposing  three  cheers  for  Smith  Wheelwright,  our  Chair- 
man, three  for  our  Orator,  Tarbox,  three  for  Old  Dunder- 
bunk,  —  Works,  Men,  Women,  and  Children ;  and  one  big 
cheer  for  Old  Father  Iron,  as  rousing  a  cheer  as  ever  was 
roared." 

So  they  gave  their  three  times  three  with  enormous  en- 
thusiasm. The  roof  shook,  the  furnaces  rattled,  Perry 
Purtett  banged  with,  the  Chairman's  hammer,  the  great 
echoes  thundered  through  the  Foundry. 

And  when  they  ended  with  one  gigantic  cheer  for  IRON, 
tough  and  true,  the  weapon,  the  tool,  and  the  engine  of  all 
civilization,  —  it  seemed  as  if  the  uproar  would  never  cease 
until  Father  Iron  himself  heard  the  call  in  his  smithy  away 
under  the  magnetic  pole,  and  came  clanking  up  to  return 
thanks  in  person. 

CHAPTER    V. 

SKATING    AS    A   FIXE   ART. 

OF  all  the  plays  that  are  played  by  this  playful  world  on 
its  play-days,  there  is  no  play  like  Skating. 

To  prepare  a  board  for  the  moves  of  this  game  of  games, 
a  panel  for  the  drawings  of  this  Fine  Art,  a  stage  for  the 
8 


114  THEODOKE  WINTHROP. 

entrechats  and  pirouettes  of  its  graceful  adepts,  Zero,  magi- 
cal artificer,  had  been,  for  the  last  two  nights,  sliding  at  full 
speed  up  and  down  the  North  River. 

We  have  heard  of  Midas,  whose  touch  made  gold,  and  of 
the  virgin  under  whose  feet  sprang  roses ;  but  Zero's  heels 
and  toes  were  armed  with  more  precious  influences.  They 
left  a  diamond  way,  where  they  slid,  —  a  hundred  and  fifty 
miles  of  diamond,  half  a  mile  wide  and  six  inches  thick. 

Diamond  can  only  reflect  sunlight ;  ice  can  contain  it. 
Zero's  product,  finer  even  than  diamond,  was  filled,  —  at  the 
rate  of  a  million  to  the  square  foot,  —  with  bubbles  im- 
measurably little,  and  yet  every  one  big  enough  to  comprise 
the  entire  sun  in  small,  but  without  alteration  or  abridg- 
ment. When  the  sun  rose,  each  of  these  wonderful  cells 
was  ready  to  catch  the  tip  of  a  sunbeam  and  house  it  in  a 
shining  abode. 

Besides  this,  Zero  had  inlaid  his  work,  all  along  shore, 
•vith  exquisite  marquetry  of  leaves,  brown  and  evergreen, 
of  sprays  and  twigs,  reeds  and  grasses.  No  parquet  in  any 
palace  from  Fontainebleau  to  St.  Petersburg  could  show 
such  delicate  patterns,  or  could  gleam  so  brightly,  though 
polished  with  all  the  wax  in  Christendom. 

On  this  fine  pavement,  all  the  way  from  Cohoes  to  Spuy- 
ten  Duyvil,  Jubilee  was  sliding  without  friction,  the  Christ- 
mas morning  of  these  adventures. 

Navigation  was  closed.  Navigators  had  leisure.  The 
sloops  and  schooners  were  frozen  in  along  shore,  the  tugs 
and  barges  were  laid  up  in  basins,  the  floating  palaces  were 
down  at  New  York,  deodorizing  their  bar-rooms,  regilding 
their  bridal  chambers,  and  enlarging  their  spittoon  accom- 
modations alow  and  aloft,  for  next  summer.  All  the  pop- 
ulation was  out  on  the  ice,  skating,  sliding,  sledding,  slipping, 
tumbling,  to  its  heart's  content. 

One  person  out  of  every  Dunderbunk  family  was  of 
course  at  home,  roasting  Christmas  turkey.  The  rest  were 


LOVE  AND  SKATES.  115 

already  at  high  jinks  on  Zero's  Christmas  present,  when 
Wade  and  the  men  came  down  from  the  meeting. 

Wade  buckled  on  his  new  skates  in  a  jiffy.  He  stamped 
to  settle  himself,  and  then  flung  off  half  a  dozen  circles  on 
the  right  leg,  half  a  dozen  with  the  left,  and  the  same  with 
either  leg  backwards. 

The  ice,  traced  with  these  white  peripheries,  showed  like 
a  blackboard  where  a  school  has  been  chalking  diagrams  of 
Euclid,  to  point  at  with  the  "slow  unyielding  finger"  of 
demonstration. 

"  Hurrah ! "  cries  Wade,  halting  in  front  of  the  men,  who, 
some  on  the  Foundry  wharf,  some  on  the  deck  of  our  first 
acquaintance  at  Dunderbunk,  the  tug  "  I.  Anibuster,"  were 
putting  on  their  skates  or  watching  him.  "Hurrah!  the 
skates  are  perfection !  Are  you  ready,  Bill  ?  " 

"Yes,"  says  Tarbox,  whizzing  off  rings,  as  exact  as 
Giotto's  autograph. 

"  Xow,  then,"  Wade  said,  "  we  '11  give  Dunderbunk  a 
laugh,  as  we  practised  last  night." 

They  got  under  full  headway,  Wade  backwards,  Bill  for- 
wards, holding  hands.  When  they  were  near  enough  to  the 
merry  throng  out  in  the  stream,  both  dropped  into  a  sitting 
posture,  with  the  left  knee  bent,  and  each  with  his  right  leg 
stretched  out  parallel  to  the  ice  and  fitting  compactly  by  the 
other  man's  lep;.  In  this  queer  figure  they  rushed  through 
the  laughing  crowd. 

Then  all  Dunderbunk  formed  a  ring,  agog  for  a  grand 
show  of 

SKATING  AS  A  FINE  ART. 

The  world  loves  to  see  Great  Artists,  and  expects  them 
to  do  their  duty. 

It  is  hard  to  treat  of  this  Fine  Art  by  the  Art  of  Fu>e 
Writing.  Its  eloquent  motions  must  be  seen. 

To  skate  Fine  Art,  you  must  have  ».  Body  J"id  s,  Soul. 


116  THEODORE  WINTLROP, 

each  of  the  First  Order ;  otherwise  you  will  never  get  out 
of  coarse  art  and  skating  in  one  syllable.  So  much  for 
yourself,  the  motive  power.  And  your  machinery,  —  your 
smooth-bottomed  rockers,  the  same  shape  stem  and  stern,  — 
this  must  be  as  perfect  as  the  man  it  moves,  and  who 
moves  it. 

Now  suppose  you  wish  to  skate  so  that  critics  will  say, 
"  See !  this  athlete  does  his  work  as  Church  paints,  as  Dar- 
ley  draws,  as  Palmer  chisels,  as  Whittier  strikes  the  lyre, 
and  Longfellow  the  dulcimer ;  he  is  as  terse  as  Emerson,  as 
clever  as  Holmes,  as  graceful  as  Curtis ;  he  is  as  calm  as 
Seward,  as  keen  as  Phillips,  as  stalwart  as  Beecher ;  he  is 
Garabaldi,  he  is  Kit  Carson,  he  is  Blondin ;  he  is  as  com- 
plete as  the  steamboat  Metropolis,  as  Steers's  yacht,  as 
Singer's  sewing-machine,  as  Colt's  revolver,  as  the  steam- 
plough,  as  Civilization."  You  wish  to  be  so  ranked  among 
the  people  and  tilings  that  lead  the  age ;  —  consider  the 
qualities  you  must  have,  and  while  you  consider,  keep  your 
eye  on  Richard  Wade,  for  he  has  them  all  in  perfection. 

First,  —  of  your  physical  qualities.  You  must  have  lungs, 
not  bellows ;  and  an  active  heart,  not  an  assortment  of  slug- 
gish auricles  and  ventricles.  You  must  have  legs,  not  shanks 
Their  shape  is  unimportant,  except  that  they  must  not  inter- 
fere at  the  knee.  You  must  have  muscles,  not  flabbiness ; 
sinews  like  wire ;  nerves  like  sunbeams ;  and  a  thin  layer 
of  flesh  to  cushion  the  gable-ends,  where  you  will  strike,  if 
you  tumble,  —  which,  once  for  all  be  it  said,  you  must  never 
do.  You  must  be  all  momentum,  and  no  inertia.  You  must 
be  one  part  grace,  one  force,  one  agility,  and  the  rest  caout- 
chouc, Manilla  hemp,  and  watch-spring.  Your  machine, 
your  body,  must  be  thoroughly  obedient.  It  must  go  just  sc 
far  and  no  farther.  You  have  got  to  be  as  unerring  as  a 
planet  holding  its  own,  emphatically,  between  forces  centrip- 
etal and  centrifugal.  Your  aplomb  must  be  as  absolute  as 
the  pounce  of  a  falcon. 


LOVE  AND  SKATES.  117 

So  much  for  a  few  of  the  physical  qualities  necessary  to 
be  a  Great  Artist  in  Skating.  See  Wade,  how  he  shows 
them! 

Now  for  the  moral  and  intellectual.  Pluck  is  the  first ;  — 
it  always  is  the  first  quality.  Then  enthusiasm.  Then  pa- 
tience. Then  pertinacity.  Then  a  fine  aesthetic  faculty,  — 
in  short,  good  taste.  Then  an  orderly  and  submissive  mind, 
that  can  consent  to  act  in  accordance  with  the  laws  of  Art. 
Circumstances,  too,  must  have  been  reasonably  favorable. 
That  well-known  sceptic,  the  King  of  tropical  Bantam, 
could  not  skate,  because  he  had  never  seen  ice  and  doubted 
even  the  existence  of  solid  water.  Widdrington,  after  the 
Battle  of  Chevy  Chace,  could  not  have  skated,  because 
he  had  no  l^gs,  —  poor  fellow ! 

But  granted  the  ice  and  the  legs,  then  if  you  begin  in  the 
elastic  days  of  youth,  when  cold  does  not  sting,  tumbles  do 
not  bruise,  and  duckings  do  not  wet ;  if  you  have  pluck  and 
ardor  enough  to  try  everything ;  if  you  work  slowly  ahead 
and  stick  to  it ;  if  you  -have  good  taste  and  a  lively  inven- 
tion ;  if  you  are  a  man,  and  not  a  lubber ;  —  then,  in  fine, 
you  may  become  a  Great  Skater,  just  as  with  equal  power 
and  equal  pains  you  may  put  your  grip  on  any  kind  of 
Greatness. 

The  technology  of  skating  is  imperfect.  Few  of  the  great 
feats,  the  Big  Things,  have  admitted  names.  If  I  attempted 
to  catalogue  Wade's  achievements,  this  chapter  might  be- 
come an  unintelligible  rhapsody.  A  sheet  of  paper  and  a 
pen-point  cannot  supply  the  place  of  a  sheet  of  ice  and  a 
skate-edge.  Geometry  must  have  its  diagrams,  Anatomy 
its  corpus  to  carve.  Skating  also  refuses  to  be  spiritualized 
into  a  Science  ;  it  remains  an  Art,  and  cannot  be  expressed 
in  a  formula. 

Skating  has  its  Little  Go,  its  Great  Go,  its  Baccalau 
reate,  its  M.  A.,  its  F.  S.  D.  (Doctor  of  Frantic  Skipping), 
its  A.  G.  D.  (Doctor  of  Airy  Gliding),  its  N.  T.  D.  (Doctor 


118  THEODORE  WINTHROP. 

of  No  Tumbles),  and  finally  its  highest  degree,  U.  P.  (Un- 
approachable Podographer). 

Wade  was  U.  P. 

There  were  a  hundred  of  Dunderbunkers  who  had  passed 
their  Little  Go  and  could  skate  forward  and  backward  easily. 
A  half-hundred,  perhaps,  were  through  the  Great  Go  ;  these 
could  do  outer  edge  freely.  A  dozen  had  taken  the  Bacca- 
laureate, and  were  proudly  repeating  the  pirouettes  and 
spread-eagles  of  that  degree.  A  few  could  cross  their  feet, 
on  the  edge,  forward  and  backward,  and  shift  edge  on  the 
same  foot,  and  so  were  Magistri  Arlis. 

Wade,  U.  P.,  added  to  these  an  indefinite  list  of  combina- 
tions and  fresh  contrivances.  He  spun  spirals  slow,  and 
spirals  neck  or  nothing.  He  pivoted  on  one  toe,  with  the 
other  foot  cutting  rings,  inner  and  outer  edge,  forward  and 
back.  He  skated  on  one  foot  better  than  the  M.  A.s  could 
on  both.  He  ran  on  his  toes ;  he  slid  on  his  heels  ;  he  cut 
up  shines  like  a  sunbeam  on  a  bender ;  he  swung,  light  as 
if  he  could  fly,  if  he  pleased,  like  a  wing-footed  Mercury ; 
he  glided,  as  if  will,  not  muscle,  moved  him ;  he  tore  about 
in  frenzies  ;  his  pivotal  leg  stoou  firm,  his  balance  leg  flapped 
like  a  graceful  pinion ;  he  turned  somersets ;  he  jumped, 
whirling  backward  as  he  went,  over  a  platoon  of  boys  laid 
flat  on  the  ice;  —  the  last  boy  winced,  and  thought  he  was 
amputated;  but  Wade  flew  over,  and  the  boy  still  holds 
together  as  well  as  most  boys.  Besides  this,  he  could  write 
his  name,  with  a  flourish  at  the  end,  like  the  rubrica  of  a 
Spanish  hidalgo.  He  could  podograph  any  letter,  and  mul- 
titudes of  ingenious  curlicues  which  might  pass  for  the 
alphabets  of  the  unknown  tongues.  He  could  not  tumble. 

It  was  Fine  Art. 

Bill  Tarbox  sometimes  pressed  the  champion  hard.  But 
Bill  stopped  just  short  of  Fine  Art,  in  High  Artisanship. 

How  Dunderbunk  cheered  this  wondrous  display  !  How 
delighted  the  whole  population  was  to  believe  they  possessed 


LOVE  AND  SKATED  119 

the  best  skater  on  the  North  River !  How  they  struggled 
to  imitate  !  How  they  tumbled,  some  on  their  backs,  some 
on  their  faces,  some  with  dignity  like  the  dying  Caesar,  some 
rebelliously  like  a  cat  thrown  out  of  a  garret,  some  limp  as 
an  ancient  acrobate  !  How  they  laughed  at  themselves  and 
at  each  other ! 

"  It 's  all  in  the  new  skates,"  says  Wade,  apologizing  for 
his  unapproachable  power  and  finish. 

"  It 's  suthin'  in  the  man,"  says  Smith  Wheelwright. 

"  Now  chase  me,  everybody,"  said  Wade. 

And,  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  he  dodged  the  merry  crowd, 
until,  at  last,  breathless,  he  let  himself  be  touched  by  pretty 
Belle  Purtett,  rosiest  of  all  the  Dunderbunk  bevy  of  rosy 
maidens  on«the  ice. 

"  He  rayther  beats  Bosting,"  says  Captain  Isaac  Ambus- 
ter  to  Smith  Wheelwright.  "  It 's  so  cold  there  that  they 
can  skate  all  the  year  round ;  but  he  beats  them,  all  the 
same." 

The  Captain  was  sitting  in  a  queer  little  bowl  of  a  skiff 
on  the  deck  of  his  tug,  and  rocking  it  like  a  cradle,  as  he 
talked. 

"  Bosting 's  always  hard  to  beat  in  anything,"  rejoined  the 
ex-Chairman.  «  But  if  Bosting  is  to  be  beat,  here  's  the 
man  to  do  it." 

And  now,  perhaps,  gentle  reader,  you  think  I  have  said 
enough  in  behalf  of  a  limited  fraternity,  the  Skaters. 

The  next  chapter,  then,  shall  take  up  the  cause  of  the 
Lovers,  a  more  numerous  body,  and  we  will  see  whether 
True  Love,  which  never  makes  "  smooth  running,"  can  help 
its  ^regress  by  a  skate-blade. 


120  THEODORE  WINTHROP. 

CHAPTER    VI. 

"  GO   NOT,    HAPPY   DAT,    TILL   THE   MAIDEN   YIELDS  " 

CHRISTMAS  noon  at  Dunderbunk,  every  skater  was  in 
galloping  glee,  —  as  the  electric  air  and  the  sparkling 
sun  and  the  glinting  ice  had  a  right  to  expect  they  all 
should  be. 

Belle  Purtett,  skating  simply  and  well,  had  never  looked 
so  pretty  and  graceful.  So  thought  Bill  Tarbox. 

He  had  not  spoken  to  her,  nor  she  to  him,  for  more  than 
six  months.  The  poor  fellow  was  ashamed  of  himself  and 
penitent  for  his  past  bad  courses.  And  so,  though  he  longed 
to  have  his  old  flame  recognize  him  again,  and  though  he 
was  bitterly  jealous  and  miserably  afraid  he  should  lose 
her,  he  had  kept  away  and  consumed  his  heart  like  a  true 
despairing  lover. 

But  to-day  Bill  was  a  lion,  only  second  to  Wade,  the 
unapproachable  lion-in-chief.  Bill  was  reinstated  in  public 
esteem,  and  had  won  back  his  standing  in  the  Foundry.  He 
had  to-day  made  a  speech  which  Perry  Purtett  gave  every- 
body to  understand  "none  of  Senator  Bill  Seward's  could 
hold  the  tallow  to."  Getting  up  the  meeting  and  present- 
ing Wade  with  the  skates  was  Bill's  own  scheme,  and  it 
had  turned  out  an  eminent  success.  Everything  began  to 
look  bright  to  him.  His  past  life  drifted  out  of  his  mind 
like  the  rowdy  tales  he  used  to  read  in  the  Sunday  news- 
papers. 

He  had  watched  Belle  Purtett  all  the  morning,  and  saw 
that  she  distinguished  nobody  with  her  smiles,  not  even  that 
coq  du  village,  Ringdove.  He  also  observed  that  she  was 
furtively  watching  him. 

By  and  by  she  sailed  out  of  the  crowd,  and  went  off  a 
little  way  to  practise. 

"  Now,"  said  he  to  himself,  "sail  in,  Bill  Tarbox ! " 


LOVE  AND  SKATES.  121 

Belle  heard  the  sharp  strokes  of  a  powerful  skater  coming 
after  her.  Her  heart  divined  who  this  might  be.  She  sped 
away  like  the  swift  Camilla,  and  her  modest  drapery  showed 
just  enough  and  "  ne  quid  nimis  "  of  her  ankles. 

Bill  admired  the  grace  and  the  ankles  immensely.  But 
his  hopes  sank  a  little  at  the  flight,  —  for  he  thought  she 
perceived  his  chase  and  meant  to  drop  him.  Bill  had  not 
had  a  classical  education,  and  knew  nothing  of  Galatea  in 
the  Eclogue,  —  how  she  did  not  hide  until  she  saw  her 
swain  was  looking  fondly  after. 

"  She.  wants  to  get  away,"  he  thought.  "  But  she  sha'n't, 
—  no,  not  if  I  have  to  follow  her  to  Albany." 

He  struck  out  mightily.  Presently  the  swift  Camilla  let 
herself  be  overtaken. 

"  Good  morning,  Miss  Purtett."     (Dogged  air.) 

"  Good  morning,  Mr.  Tarbox."     (Taken-by-surprise  air.) 

"  I  've  been  admiring  your  skating,"  says  Bill,  trying  to 
be  cool. 

"  Have  you  ?  "  rejoins  Belle,  very  cool  and  distant 

"  Have  you  been  long  on  the  ice  ?  "  he  inquired,  hypo- 
critically. 

"  I  came  on  two  hours  ago  with  Mr.  Ringdove  and  the 
girls,"  returned  she,  with  a  twinkle  which  said,  "  Take  that, 
sir,  for  pretending  you  did  not  see  me." 

"  You  've  seen  Mr.  Wade  skate,  then,"  Bill  said,  ignoring 
Ringdove. 

"  Yes  ;  is  n't  it  splendid  ?  "  Belle  replied,  kindling. 

"  Tip-top ! " 

"  But  then  he  does  everything  better  than  anybody." 

"  So  he  does ! "  Bill  said,  —  true  to  his  friend,  and  yet 
beginning  to  be  jealous  of  this  enthusiasm.  It  was  not  the 
first  time  he  had  been  jealous  of  Wade  ;  but  he  had  quelled 
his  fears,  like  a  good  fellow. 

Belle  perceived  Bill's  jealousy,  aud  could  have  cried  for 
joy.  She  had  known  as  little  of  her  once  lover's  heart  as 


122  THEODORE  WINTHROP. 

he  of  hers.  She  only  knew  that  he  stopped  coming  to  see 
her  when  he  fell,  and  had  not  renewed  his  visits  now  that 
he  was  risen  again.  If  she  had  not  been  charmingly  ruddy 
with  the  brisk  air  and  exercise,  she  would  have  betrayed 
her  pleasure  at  Bill's  jealousy  with  a  fine  blush. 

The  sense  of  recovered  power  made  her  wish  to  use  it 
again.  She  must  tease  him  a  little.  So  she  continued,  as 
they  skated  on  in  good  rhythm, — 

"  Mother  and  I  would  n't  know  what  to  do  without  Mr. 
"Wade.  We  like  him  so  much,"  —  said  ardently. 

What  Bill  feared  was  true,  then,  he  thought.  Wade, 
noble  fellow,  worthy  to  win  any  woman's  heart,  had  fasci- 
nated his  landlady's  daughter. 

"  I  don't  wonder  you  like  him,"  said  he.  "  He  deserves 
it." 

Belle  was  touched  by  her  old  lover's  forlorn  tone. 

"  He  does  indeed,"  she  said.  "  He  has  helped  and 
taught  us  all  so  much.  He  has  taken  such  good  care  of 
Perry.  And  then"  —  here  she  gave  her  companion  a 
little  look  and  a  little  smile  —  "  he  speak's  so  kindly  of  you, 
Mr.  Tarbox." 

Smile,  look,  and  words  electrified  Bill.  He  gave  such  a 
spring  on  his  skates  that  he  shot  far  ahead  of  the  lady.  He 
brought  himself  back  with  a  sharp  turn. 

"  He  has  done  kinder  than  he  can  speak,"  says  Bill. 
"  He  has  made  a  man  of  me  again,  Miss  Belle." 

"  I  know  it.  It  makes  me  very  happy  to  hear  you  able 
to  say  so  of  yourself."  She  spoke  gravely. 

"  Very  happy  "  —  about  anything  that  concerned  him  ? 
Bill  had  to  work  off  his  over-joy  at  this  by  an  exuberant 
flourish.  He  whisked  about  Belle,  —  outer  edge  backward. 
She  stopped  to  admire.  He  finished  by  describing  on  the 
virgin  ice,  before  her,  the  letters  B.  P.,  in  his  neatest  style 
of  podography,  —  easy  letters  to  make,  luckily. 

«  Beautiful !  "  exclaimed  Belle.  "  What  are  those  let- 
ters  ?  Oh !  B.  P. !  What  do  they  stand  for  ?  " 


LOVE  AMD  SKATES.  12 J 

"Guess!" 

"I'm  so  dull,''  said  she,  looking  bright  as  a  diamond. 
«  Let  me  think !  B.  P.  ?  British  Poets,  perhaps." 

"  Try  nearer  home  ! " 

"  What  are  you  likely  to  be  thinking  of  that  begins  with 
B.  P.  ?  —  O,  I  know !  Boiler  Plates  ! " 

She  looked  at  him,  —  innocent  as  a  lamb.  Bill  looked 
at  her,  delighted  with  her  little  coquetry.  A  woman 
without  coquetry  is  insipid  as  a  rose  without  scent,  as 
Champagne  without  bubbles,  or  as  corned  beef  without 
mustard. 

"  It 's  something  I  'm  thinking  of  most  of  the  time,"  says 
he;  "but  I  hope  it's  softer  than  Boiler  Plates.  B.  P 
stands  for  ^liss  Isabella  Purtett." 

"  Oh ! "  says  Belle,  and  she  skated  on  in  silence. 

"  You  came  down  with  Alonzo  Ringdove  ? "  BiH 
asked,  suddenly,  aware  of  another  pang  after  a  moment 
of  peace. 

"  He  came  with  me  and  his  sisters,"  she  replied. 

Yes ;  poor  Ringdove  had  dressed  himself  in  his  shiniest 
black,  put  on  his  brightest  patent-leather  boots,  with  his 
new  swan-necked  skates  newly  strapped  over  them,  and 
wore  his  new  dove-colored  overcoat  with  the  long  skirts,  on 
purpose  to  be  lovely  hi  the  eyes  of  Belle  on  this  occasion. 
Alas,  in  vain  ! 

"  Mr.  Ringdove  is  a  great  friend  of  yours,  is  n't  he  ?  " 

"  If  you  ever  came  'to  see  me  now,  you  would  know  who 
my  friends  are,  Mr.  Tarbox." 

"  Would  you  be  my  friend  again,  if  I  came,  Miss 
Belle  ?  " 

"Again?     I  have  always  been  so,  —  always,  Bill." 

"  Well,  then,  something  more  than  my  friend,  —  now  that 
I  am  trying  to  be  worthy  of  more,  Belle  ?  " 

"  What  more  can  I  be  ?  "  she  said,  softly. 

«M     wife." 


124  THEODORE  WINTHROP. 

She  curved  to  the  right.  He  followed.  To  the  left.  He 
was  not  to  be  shaken  off. 

"  Will  you  promise  me  not  to  say  waives  instead  of  valves, 
Bill  ?  "  she  said,  looking  pretty  and  saucy  as  could  be.  "  I 
know,  to  say  W  for  V  is  fashionable  in  the  iron  business ; 
but  I  don't  like  it." 

"  What  a  thing  a  woman  is  to  dodge  ?  "  says  Bill.  "  Sup- 
pose I  told  you  that  men  brought  up  inside  of  boilers, 
hammering  on  the  inside  against  twenty  hammering  like 
Wulcans  on  the  outside,  get  their  ears  so  dumfounded  that 
they  can't  tell  whether  they  are  saying  valves  or  waives, 
wice  or  virtue,  —  suppose  I  told  you  that,  —  what  would 
you  say,  Belle  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  I  'd  say  that  you  pronounce  virtue  so  well,  and 
act  it  so  sincerely,  that  I  can't  make  any  objection  to  your 
other  words.  If  you  'd  asked  me  to  be  your  vife,  Bill,  I 
might  have  said  I  did  n't  understand ;  but  wife  I  do  under- 
stand, and  I  say  —  " 

She  nodded,  and  tried  to  skate  off.  Bill  stuck  close  to 
her  side. 

"Is  this  true,  Belle?"  he  said,  almost  doubtfully. 

"True  as  truth!" 

She  put  out  her  hand.  He  took  it,  and  they  skated  on 
together,  —  hearts  beating  to  the  rhythm  of  their  move- 
ments. The  uproar  and  merriment  of  the  village  came  only 
faintly  to  them.  It  seemed  as  if  all  Nature  was  hushed  to 
listen  to  their  plighted  troth,  their  words  of  love  renewed, 
more  earnest  for  long  suppression.  The  beautiful  ice  spread 
before  them,  like  their  life  to  come,  a  pathway  untouched 
by  any  sorrowful  or  weary  footstep.  The  blue  sky  was 
cloudless.  The  keen  air  stirred  the  pulses  like  the  vapor 
of  frozen  wine.  The  benignant  mountains  westward  kindly 
surveyed  the  happy  pair,  and  the  sun  seemed  created  to 
warm  and  cheer  them. 

«  And  you  forgive  me,  Belle  ?  "  said  the  lover.     "  I  feel 


LOVE  AND  SKATES.  125 

as  if  I  had  only  gone  bad  to  make  me  know  bow  much 
better  going  right  is." 

"  I  always  knew  you  would  find  it  out.  I  never  stopped 
hoping  and  praying  for  it." 

"  That  must  have  been  what  brough't  Mr.  Wade  here." 

"  Oh,  I  did  hate  him  so,  Bill,  when  I  heard  of  something 
that  happened  between  you  and  him!  I  thought  him  a 
brute  and  a  tyrant.  I  never  could  get  over  it,  until  he  told 
mother  that  you  were  the  best  machinist  he  ever  knew,  and 
would  some  time  grow  to  be  a  great  inventor." 

"  I  'm  glad  you  hated  him.  I  suffered  rattlesnakes  and 
collapsed  flues  for  fear  you  M  go  and  love  him." 

"  My  affections  were  engaged,"  she  said  with  simple 
seriousness.* 

"  Oh,  if  I  'd  only  thought  so  long  ago  !  How  lovely  you 
are  ! "  exclaims  Bill,  in  an  ecstasy.  "  And  how  refined  I 
And  how  good !  God  bless  you  ! " 

He  made  up  such  a  wishful  mouth,  —  so  wishful  for  one 
of  the  pleasurable  duties  of  mouths,  that  Belle  blushed, 
laughed,  and  looked  down,  and  as  she  did  so  saw  that  one 
of  her  straps  was  trailing. 

"  Please  fix  it,  Bill,"  she  said,  stopping  and  kneeling. 

Bill  also  knelt,  and  his  wishful  mouth  immediately  took 
its  chance. 

A  manly  smack  and  sweet  little  feminine  chirp  sounded 
as  their  lips  met. 

Boom  !  twanging  gay  as  the  first  tap  of  a  marriage-bell, 
a  loud  crack  in  the  ice  rang  musically  for  leagues  up  and 
down  the  river.  "  Bravo ! "  it  seemed  to  say.  "  Well  done, 
Bill  Tarbox  !  Try  again  ! "  Which  the  happy  fellow  did, 
and  the  happy  maiden  permitted. 

"  Now,"  said  Bill,  "  let  us  go  and  hug  Mr.  Wade  ! " 

"  What !  Both  of  us  ?  "  Belle  protested.  "  Mr.  Tarbox, 
I  am  ashamed  of  you  ! " 


126  THEODORE  WINTHROP. 

CHAPTER    VII. 

WADE    DOWN. 

THE  hugging  of  Wade  by  the  happy  pair  had  to  be  done 
metaphorically,  since  it  was  done  in  the  sight  of  all  Dunder- 
bunk. 

He  had  divined  a  happy  result  when  he  missed  Bill  Tar- 
box  from  the  arena,  and  saw  him  a  furlong  away,  hand  in 
hand  with  his  reconciled  sweetheart. 

"  I  envy  you,  Bill,"  said  he,  "  almost  too  much  to  put 
proper  fervor  into  my  congratulations." 

"  Your  time  will  come,"  the  foreman  rejoined. 

And  says  Belle,  "  I  am  sure  there  is  a  lady  skating  some- 
where, and  only  waiting  for  you  to  follow  her." 

"  I  don't  see  her,"  Wade  replied,  looking  with  a  mock- 
grave  face  up  and  down  and  athwart  the  river.  "  When 
you  've  all  gone  to  dinner,  I  '11  prospect  ten  miles  up  and 
down,  and  try  to  find  a  good  matrimonial  claim  that 's  not 
taken." 

"  You  will  not  come  up  to  dinner  ?  "  Belle  asked. 

"  I  can  hardly  afford  to  make  two  bites  of  a  holiday," 
said  Wade.  "  I  Ve  sent  Perry  up  for  a  luncheon.  Here 
he  comes  with  it.  So  I  cede  my  quarter  of  your  pie,  Miss 
Belle,  to  a  better  fellow." 

"  Oh  ! "  cries  Perry,  coming  up  and  bowing  elaborately. 
"  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tarbox,  I  believe.  Ah,  yes !  Well,  I 
will  mention  it  up  at  Albany.  I  am  going  to  take  my 
Guards  up  to  call  on  the  Governor." 

Perry  dashed  off,  followed  by  a  score  of  Dunderbunk 
boys,  organized  by  him  as  the  Purtett  Guards,  and  taught 
to  salute  him  as  Generalissimo  with  military  honors. 

So  many  hundreds  of  turkeys,  done  to  a  turn,  now  began 
to  have  an  effect  upon  the  atmosphere.  Few  odors  are 
more  subtile  and  pervading  than  this,  and  few  more  appetiz- 


LOVE  AND  SKATES.  127 

ing.  Indeed,  there  is  said  to  be  an  odd  fellow,  a  strictly 
American  gourmand,  in  New  York,  who  sits  from  noon  to 
dusk  on  Christmas  day  up  in  a  tall  steeple,  merely  to  catch 
the  aroma  of  roast-turkey  floating  over  the  city,  —  and 
much  good,  it  is  said,  it  doesihhn. 

Hard  skating  is  nearly  as  effective  to  whet  Lunger  as  his 
gentleman's  expedient  When  the  spicy  breezes  began  to 
blow  soft  as  those  of  Ceylon's  isle  over  the  river  and  every 
whiff  talked  Turkey,  the  population  of  Dunderbunk  listened 
to  the  wooing  and  began  to  follow  its  several  noses  —  snubs, 
beaks,  blunts,  sharps,  piquants,  dominants,  fines,  bulgies,  and 
bifids  —  on  the  way  to  the  several  households  which  those 
noses  adorned  or  defaced.  Prosperous  Dunderbunk  had  a 
Dinner,  yes,  a  DINNER,  that  day,  and  Richard  Wade  was 
gratefully  remembered  by  many  over-fed  foundry-men  and 
their  over-fed  families. 

Wade  had  not  had  half  skating  enough. 

"  I  '11  time  myself  down  to  Skerrett's  Point,"  he  thought, 
"  and  take  my  luncheon  there  among  the  hemlocks." 

The  Point  was  on  the  property  of  Peter  Skerrett,  Wade's 
friend  and  college  comrade  of  ten  years  gone.  Peter  had 
been  an  absentee  in  Europe,  and  smokes  from  his  chimneys 
this  morning  had  confirmed  to  Wade's  eyes  the  rumor  of  his 
return. 

Skerrett's  Point  was  a  mile  below  the  Foundry.  Our 
hero  did  his  mile  under  three  minutes.  How  many  seconds 
under,  I  will  not  say.  I  do  not  wish  to  make  other  fellows 
unhappy. 

The  Point  was  a  favorite  spot  of  Wade's.  Many  a  twi- 
light of  last  summer,  tired  with  his  fagging  at  the  Works  to 
make  good  the  evil  of  Whiffler's  rule,  he  had  lain  there  on 
the  rocks  under  the  hemlocks,  breathing  the  spicy  methyl 
they  poured  into  the  air.  After  his  day's  hard  fight,  in  the 
dust  and  heat  of  the  Foundry,  with  anarchy  and  unthrift,  he 
used  to  take  the  quiet  restoratives  of  Nature,  until  the  mur- 


128  THEODORE  WINTHROP. 

inur  and  fragrance  of  the  woods,  the  cool  wind,  and  the 
soothing  loiter  of  the  shining  stream  had  purged  him  from 
the  fevers  of  his  task. 

To  this  old  haunt  he  skated,  and  kindling  a  little  fire,  as 
an  old  campaigner  loves  to*  do,  he  sat  down  and  lunched 
heartily  on  Mrs.  Purtett's  cold  leg,  —  cannibal  thought !  — 
on  the  cold  leg  of  Mrs.  Purtett's  yesterday's  turkey.  Then 
lighting  his  weed,  —  dear  ally  of  the  lonely,  —  the  Superin- 
tendent began  to  think  of  his  foreman's  bliss,  and  to  long  for 
some  thing  similar  on  his  own  plane. 

"  I  hope  the  wish  is  lather  to  its  fulfilment,"  he  said. 
"  But  I  must  not  stop  here  and  be  spooney.  Such  a  halcyon 
day  I  may  not  have  again  in  all  my  life,  and  I  ought  to  make 
the  best  of  it  with  my  New  Skates." 

So  he  dashed  off,  and  filled  the  little  cove  above  the  Point 
with  a  labyrinth  of  curves  and  flourishes. 

When  that  bit  of  crystal  tablet  was  well  covered,  the 
podographer  sighed  for  a  new  sheet  to  inscribe  his  intricate 
rubricas  upon.  Why  not  write  more  stanzas  of  the  poetry 
of  motion  on  the  ice  below  the  Point  ?  Why  not  ? 

Braced  by  his  lunch  on  the  brown  fibre  of  good  Mrs. 
Purtett's  cold  drumstick  and  thigh,  Wade  was  now  in  fine 
trim.  The  air  was  more  glittering  and  electric  than  ever. 
It  was  triumph  and  victory  and  paean  in  action  to  go  flashing 
along  over  this  footing,  smoother  than  polished  marble  and 
sheenier  than  first-water  gems. 

Wade  felt  the  high  exhilaration  of  pure  blood  galloping 
through  a  body  alive  from  top  to  toe.  The  rhythm  of  liis 
movement  was  like  music  to  him. 

The  Point  ended  in  a  sharp  promontory.  Just  before  he 
came  abreast  of  it,  Wade  under  mighty  headway  flung  into 
his  favorite  corkscrew  spiral  on  one  foot,  and  went  whirling 
dizzily  along,  round  and  round,  in  a  straight  line. 

At  the  dizziest  moment,  he  was  suddenly  aware  of  a  figure 
also  turning  the  Point  at  full  speed,  and  rushing  to  a  col- 
lision. 


LOVE  AND  SKATES.  129 

He  jerked  aside  to  avoid  it.  He  could  not  look  to  his 
footing.  His  skate  struck  a  broken  oar,  imbedded  in  the 
ice.  He  fell  violently,  and  lay  like  a  dead  man. 

His  New  Skates,  Testimonial  of  Merit,  seem  to  have 
served  liim  a  shabby  trick. 


CHAPTER    VIII. 


SEEING  Wade  lie  there  motionless,  the  lady  — 

Took  off  her  spectacles,  blew  her  great  red  nose,  and 
stiffly  drew  near. 

Spectacles  !  Nose  !  No,  —  the  latter  feature  of  hers  had 
never  become  acquainted  with  the  former  ;  and  there  was  as 
little  stiffness  as  nasal  redness  about  her. 

A  fresh  start,  then,  —  and  this  time  accuracy  ! 

Appalled  by  the  loud  thump  of  the  stranger's  skull  upon 
the  chief  river  of  the  State  of  New  York,  the  lady  —  it  was 
a  young  lady  whom  Wade  had  tumbled  to  avoid  —  turned, 
saw  a  human  being  lying  motionless,  and  swept  gracefully 
toward  him,  like  a  Good  Samaritan,  on  the  outer  edge.  It 
was  not  her  fault,  but  her  destiny,  that  she  had  to  be  grace- 
ful even  under  these  tragic  circumstances. 

"  Dead  !  "  she  thought.     "  Is  he  dead  ?  " 

The  appalling  thump  had  cracked  the  ice,  and  she  could 
not  know  how  well  the  skull  was  cushioned  inside  with 
brains  to  resist  a  blow. 

She  shuddered  as  she  swooped  about  toward  this  possible 
corpse.  It  might  be  that  he  was  killed,  and  half  the  fault 
hers.  No  wonder  her  fine  color,  shining  in  the  right  parts 
of  an  admirably  drawn  face,  all  disappeared  instantly. 

But  she  evidently  was  not  frightened.    She  halted,  kneeled, 
looked  curiously  at  the  stranger,  and  then  proceeded,  in  a 
perfectly  cool  and  self-possessed  way,  to  pick  him  up. 
9 


130  THEODORE  WINTHROP. 

A  solid  fellow,  heavy  to  lift  in  his  present  lumpish  condi- 
tion of  dead- weight !  She  had  to  tug  mightily  to  get  him  up 
into  a  sitting  position.  When  he  was  raised,  all  the  back- 
bone seemed  gone  from  his  spine,  and  it  took  the  whole  force 
of  her  vigorous  arms  to  sustain  him. 

The  effort  was  enough  to  account  for  the  return  of  her 
color.  It  came  rushing  back  splendidly.  Cheeks,  forehead, 
everything  but  nose,  blushed.  The  hard  work  of  lifting  so 
much  avoirdupois,  and  possibly,  also,  the  novelty  of  support- 
ing so  much  handsome  fellow,  intensified  all  her  hues.  Her 
eyes  —  blue,  or  that  shade  even  more  faithful  than  blue  — 
deepened ;  and  her  pale  golden  hair  grew  several  carats  — 
not  carrots  —  brighter. 

She  was  repaid  for  her  active  sympathy  at  once  by  discov- 
ering that  this  big,  awkward  thing  was  not  a  dead,  but  only 
a  stunned  body.  It  had  an  ugly  bump  and  a  bleeding  cut 
on  its  manly  skull,  but  otherwise  was  quite  an  agreeable 
object  to  contemplate,  and  plainly  on  its  "  unembarrassed 
brow  Nature  had  written  k  Gentleman.'  " 

As  this  young  lady  had  never  had  a  fair,  steady  stare  at  a 
stunned  hero  before,  she  seized  her  advantage.  She  had 
hitherto  been  distant  with  the  other  sex.  She  had  no 
brother.  Not  one  of  her  male  cousins  had  ever  ventured 
near  enough  to  get  those  cousinly  privileges  that  timid 
cousins  sigh  for  and  plucky  cousins  take,  if  they  are  worth 
taking. 

Wade's  impressive  face,  though  for  the  moment  blind  as  a 
statue's,  also  seized  its  advantage  and  stared  "at  her  in- 
tently, with  a  pained  and  pleading  look,  new  to  those  reso- 
lute features. 

Wade  was  entirely  unconscious  of  the  great  hit  he  had 
made  by  his  tumble :  plump  into  the  arms  of  this  heroine ! 
There  were  fellows  extant  who  would  have  suffered  anj 
imaginable  amputation,  any  conceivable  mauling,  any  fling 
from  the  apex  of  anything  into  the  lowest  deeps  of  any- 
where, for  the  honor  he  was  now  enjoying. 


LOVE  AND  SKATES.  131 

But  all  he  knew  was  that  his  skull  was  a  beehive  in  an 
uproar,  and  that  one  lobe  of  his  brain  was  struggling  to 
swarm  off.  His  legs  and  arms  felt  as  if  they  belonged  to 
another  man,  and  a  very  limp  one  at  that.  A  ton  of  cast-iron 
seemed  to  be  pressing  his  eyelids  down,  and  a  trickle  of  red- 
hot  metal  flowed  from  his  cut  forehead. 

"  I  shall  have  to  scream,"  thought  the  lady,  after  an  instant 
of  anxious  waiting,  "  if  he  does  not  revive.  I  cannct  leave 
him  to  go  for  help." 

Not  a  prude,  you  see.  A  prude  would  have  had  cheap 
scruples  about  compromising  herself  by  taking  a  man  in 
her  arms.  Not  a  vulgar  person,  who  would  have  required 
the  stranger  to  be  properly  recommended  by  somebody  who 
came  over 'in  the  Mayflower,  before  she  helped  him.  Not  a 
feeble-minded  damsel,  who,  if  she  had  not  fainted,  would 
have  fled  away,  gasping  and  in  tears.  No  timidity  or 
prudery  or  underbred  doubts  about  this  thorough  creature. 
She  knew  she  was  in  her  right  womanly  place,  and  she 
meant  to  stay  there. 

But  she  began  to  need  help,  possibly  a  lancet,  possibly  a 
pocket-pistol,  possibly  hot  blankets,  possibly  somebody  to 
knead  these  lifeless  lungs  and  pommel  this  flaccid  body, 
until  circulation  was  restored. 

Just  as  she  was  making  up  her  mind  to  scream,  Wade 
stirred.  He  began  to  tingle  as  if  a  familiar  of  the  Inquisi- 
tion were  slapping  him  all  over  with  fine-toothed  currycombs. 
He  became  half  conscious  of  a  woman  supporting  him.  Jo 
a  stammering  and  intoxicated  voice  he  murmured,  — 

"  Who  ran  to  catch  me  when  I  fell, 
And  kissed  the  place  to  make  it  well  ? 
My-" 

He  opened  his  eyes.  It  was  not  his  mother ;  for  she  was 
long  since  deceased.  Nor  was  this  non-mother  kissing  the 
place. 

In  fact,  abashed  at  the  blind  eyes  suddenly  unclosing  s<? 


132  THEODORE  WINTHROP. 

near  her,  she  was  on  the  point  of  letting  her  burden  drop. 
When  dead  men  come  to  life  in  such  a  position,  and  begin  to 
talk  about  "  kissing  the  place,"  young  ladies,  however  inde- 
pendent of  conventions,  may  well  grow  uneasy. 

But  the  stranger,  though  alive,  was  evidently  in  a  mollus- 
cous, invertebrate  condition.  He  could  not  sustain  himself. 
She  still  held  lum  up,  a  little  more  at  arm's-length,  and  all 
at  once  the  reaction  from  extreme  anxiety  brought  a  gush 
of  tears  to  her  eyes. 

"  Don't  cry,"  says  Wade,  vaguely,  and  still  only  half  con- 
scious. "  I  promise  never  to  do  so  again." 

At  this,  said  with  a  childlike  earnestness,  the  lady  smiled. 

"  Don't  scalp  me,"  Wade  continued,  in  the  same  tone. 
"  Squaws  never  scalp." 

He  raised  his  hand  to  his  bleeding  forehead. 

She  laughed  outright  at  his  queer  plaintive  tone  and  the 
new  class  he  had  placed  her  in. 

Her  laugh  and  his  own  movement  brought  Wade  fully  to 
himself.  She  perceived  that  his  look  was  transferring  her 
from  the  order  of  scalping  squaws  to  her  proper  place  as  a 
beautiful  young  woman  of  the  highest  civilization,  not  smeared, 
with  vermilion,  but  blushing  celestial  rosy. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Wade.  "  I  can  sit  up  now  without 
assistance."  And  he  regretted  profoundly  that  good  breed 
ing  obliged  him  to  say  so. 

She  withdrew  her  arms.  He  rested  on  the  ice,  —  posture 
of  the  Dying  Gladiator.  She  made  an  effort  to  be  cool  and 
distant  as  usual ;  but  it  would  not  do.  Tin's  weak  mighty 
man  still  interested  her.  It  was  still  her  business  to  be 
strength  tc  him. 

He  made  a  feeble  attempt  to  wipe  away  the  drops  of 
blood  from  his  forehead  with  his  handkerchief. 

"  Let  me  be  your  surgeon  !  "  said  she. 

She  produced  her  own  folded  handkerchief,  —  M.  D.  were 
the  initials  in  the  corner,  —  and  neatly  and  tenderly  tur- 
bancd  him. 


LOVE  AND  SKATES.  Io3 

Wade  submitted  with  delight  to  this  treatment.  A  tum- 
ble with  such  trimmings  was  luxury  indeed. 

"  Who  would  not  break  his  head,"  he  thought,  "  to  have 
these  delicate  fingers  plying  about  him,  and  this  pure,  noble 
face  so  close  to  his  ?  What  a  queenly  indifferent  manner 
she  has  !  What  a  calm  brow  !  What  honest  eyes  !  What 
a  firm  nose  !  What  equable  cheeks  !  What  a  grand  indig- 
nant mouth  !  Not  a  bit  afraid  of  me !  She  feels  that  I  f on 
a  gentleman  and  will  not  presume." 

"  There ! "  said  she,  drawing  back.  "  Is  that  comforta- 
ble ?  " 

"  Luxury !  "  he  ejaculated  with  fervor. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  am  to  blame  for  your  terrible  fall." 

"  No,  — \my  own  clumsiness  and  that  oar-blade  are  in 
fault." 

"  If  you  feel  well  enough  to  be  left  alone,  I  will  skate  off 
and  call  my  friends." 

"  Please  do  not  leave  me  quite  yet ! "  says  Wade,  entirely 
satisfied  with  the  tete-a-tete. 

"Ah!  here  comes  Mr.  Skerrett  round  the  Point!"  she 
said,  —  and  sprang  up,  looking  a  little  guilty. 


CHAPTER    IX. 

LOVE    IN   THE    FIRST    DEGREE. 

PETER  SKERRETT  came  sailing  round  the  purple  rocks 
of  his  Point,  skating  like  a  man  who  has  been  in  the  South 
of  Europe  for  two  winters. 

He  was  decidedly  Anglicized  in  his  whiskers,  coat,  and 
shoes.  Otherwise  he  in  all  respects  repeated  his  well-known 
ancestor,  Skerrett  of  the  Revolution;  whose  two  portraits  — 
1.  A  ruddy  hero  in  regimentals,  in  Gilbert  Stuart's  early 
brandy  -arid-water  manner ;  2.  A  rosy  sage  in  senatorial,  in 
Stuart's  later  claret-and- water  manner  —  hang  in  his  de- 
scendant's dining-room. 


134  THEODORE  WINTHROP. 

Peter's  first  look  was  a  provokingly  significant  one  at  the 
confused  and  blushing  young  lady.  Secondly,  he  inspected 
the  Dying  Gladiator  on  the  ice. 

"  Have  you  been  tilting  at  this  gentleman,  Mary  ?  "  he 
asked,  in  the  voice  of  a  cheerful,  friendly  fellow.  "  Why  ! 
Hullo.  Hooray  !  It 's  Wade,  Richard  Wade,  Dick  Wade  ! 
Don't  look,  Miss  Mary,  while  I  give  him  the  grips  .of  all  the 
secret  societies  we  belonged  to  in  college." 

Mary,  however,  did  look  on,  pleased  and  amused,  while 
Peter  plumped  down  on  the  ice,  shook  his  friend's  hand, 
and  examined  him  as  if  he  were  fine  crockery,  spilt  and 
perhaps  shattered. 

"  It 's  not  a  case  of  trepanning,  Dick,  my  boy  ?  "  said  he. 

"  No,"  said  the  other.  "  I  tumbled  in  trying  to  dodge 
this  lady.  The  ice  thought  my  face  ought  to  be  scratched, 
because  I  had  been  scratching  its  face  without  mercy.  My 
wits  were  knocked  out  of  me ;  but  they  are  tired  of  secession, 
and  pleading  to  be  let  in  again." 

"  Keep  some  of  them  out  for  our  sake  !  We  must  have 
you  at  our  commonplace  level.  Well,  Miss  Mary,  I  suppose 
this  is  the  first  time  you  have  had  the  sensation  of  breaking 
a  man's  head.  You  generally  hit  lower."  Peter  tapped 
his  heart. 

"  I  'm  all  right  now,  thanks  to  my  surgeon,"  says  Wade. 
"  Give  me  a  lift,  Peter."  He  pulled  up  and  clung  to  his 
friend. 

"  You  're  the  vine  and  I  'm  the  lamp-post,"  Skerrett  said. 
*  Mary,  do  you  know  what  a  pocket-pistol  is  ?  " 

"  I  have  seen  such  weapons  concealed  about  the  persons 
of  modern  warriors." 

"  There 's  one  in  my  overcoat-pocket,  with  a  cup  at  the 
but  and  a  cork  at  the  muzzle.  Skate  off,  now,  like  an  angel, 
and  get  it.  Bring  Fanny,  too.  She  is  restorative." 

"  Are  you  alive  enough  to  admire  that,  Dick  ?  "  he  con- 
tinued, as  she  skimmed  away. 


LOVE  AND  SKATES.  135 

*  It  would  put  a  soul  under  the  ribs  of  Death." 

"  I  venerate  that  young  woman,"  says  Peter.  "  You  see 
what  a  beauty  she  is,  and  just  as  unspoiled  as  this  ice.  Un- 
spoiled beauties  are  rarer  than  rocs'  eggs." 

"  She  has  a  singularly  true  face,"  "Wade  replied,  "  and  that 
is  the  main  thing,  —  the  most  excellent  thing  in  man  or 
woman." 

"  Yes,  truth  makes  that  nuisance,  beauty,  tolerable." 

"  You  did  not  do  me  the  honor  to  present  me." 

"  I  saw  you  had  gone  a  great  way  beyond  that,  my  boy. 
Have  you  not  her  initials  in  cambric  on  your  brow  ?  Not 
M.  T.,  which  would  n't  apply ;  but  M.  D." 

"Mary  —  ?" 

«  Darner." 

"  I  like  the  name,"  says  Wade,  repeating  it.  "  It  sounds 
simple  and  thorough-bred." 

"  Just  what  she  is.  One  of  the  nine  simple-hearted  and 
thorough-bred  girls  on  this  continent." 

«  Nine  ?  " 

"  Is  that  too  many  ?  Three,  then.  That 's  one  in  ten 
millions.  The  exact  proportion  of  Poets,  Painters,  Orators, 
Statesmen,  and  all  other  Great  Artists.  Well,  —  three  or 
nine,  —  Mary  Darner  is  one  of  them.  She  never  saw  fear 
or  jealousy,  or  knowingly  allowed  an  ignoble  thought  or  an 
ungentle  word  or  an  ungraceful  act  in  herself.  Her  atmos- 
phere does  not  tolerate  flirtation.  You  must  find  out  for 
yourself  how  much  genius  she  has  and  has  not.  But  I  will 
say  this,  —  that  I  think  of  puns  two  a  minute  faster  when 
I  'm  with  her.  Therefore  she  must  be  magnetic,  and  that 
is  the  first  charm  in  a  woman." 

Wade  laughed.  "You  have  not  lost  your  powers  of 
analysis,  Peter.  But  talking  of  this  heroine,  you  have  not 
told  me  anything  about  yourself,  except  apropos  of  pun- 
ning." 

"  Come  up  and  dine,  and  we  '11  fire  away  personal  his- 


136  THEODORE  WTNTHROP. 

tories,  broadside  for  broadside  !  I  've  been  looking  in  vain 
for  a  worthy  hero  to  set  vis-a-vis  to  my  fair  kinswoman. 
But  stop !  perhaps  you  have  a  Christmas  turkey  at  home, 
with  a  wife  opposite,  and  a  brace  of  boys  waiting  for  drum- 
sticks." 

"  No,  —  my  boys,  like  cherubs,  await  their  own  drum- 
sticks. They  're  not  born,  and  I  'm  not  married." 

"  I  thought  you  looked  incomplete  and  abnormal.  Well, 
I  will  show  you  a  model  wife,  —  and  here  she  comes  !  " 

Here  they  came,  the  two  ladies,  gliding  round  the  Point, 
with  draperies  floating  as  artlessly  artful  as  the  robes  of 
Raphael's  Hours,  or  a  Pompeian  Bacchante.  For  want  of 
classic  vase  or  patera,  Miss  Darner  brandished  Peter  Sker- 
rett's  pocket-pistol. 

Fanny  Skerrett  gave  her'  hand  cordially  to  Wade,  and 
looked  a  little  anxiously  at  his  pale  face. 

"  Now,  M.  D."  says  Peter,  "  you  have  been  surgeon,  you 
shall  be  doctor  and  dose  our  patient.  Now,  then,  — 

'  Hebe,  pour  free ! 

Quicken  his  eyes  with  mountain-dew, 
That  Styx,  the  detested, 
No  more  he  may  view.' " 

"  Thanks,  Hebe  !  " 
Wade  said,  continuing  the  quotation,  — 

"I  quaff  it! 
lo  Paean,  I  cry! 
The  whiskey  of  the  Immortals 
Forbids  me  to  die." 

"We  effeminate  women  of  the  nineteenth  century  are 
afraid  of  broken  heads,"  said  Fanny.  "  But  Mary  Darner 
seems  quite  to  enjoy  your  accident,  Mr.  Wade,  as  an  adven- 
ture." 

Miss  Darner  certainly  did  seem  gay  and  exhilarated. 

"  I  enjoy  it,"  said  Wade.  "  I  perceive  that  I  fell  on  my 
feet,  when  I  fell  on  my  crown.  I  tumbled  among  old  friends, 
and  I  hope  among  new  ones." 


LOVE  AND  SKATES.  137 

"  I  have  been  waiting  to  claim  my  place  among  your  old 
friends,"  Mrs.  Skerrett  said,  "  ever  since  Peter  told  me  you 
were  one  of  his  models." 

She  delivered  this  little  speech  with  a  caressing  manner 
which  totally  fascinated  Wade. 

Nothing  was  ever  so  absolutely  pretty  as  Mrs.  Peter 
Skerrett.  Her  complete  prettiness  left  nothing  to  be  de- 
sired. 

"  Never,"  thought  Wade,  "  did  I  see  such  a  compact  little 
casket  of  perfections.  Every  feature  is  thoroughly  well 
done  and  none  intrusively  superior.  Her  little  nose  is  a 
combination  of  all  the  amiabilities.  Her  black  eyes  sparkle 
with  fun  and  mischief  and  wit,  all  playing  over  deep  ten- 
derness befyw.  Her  hair  ripples  itself  full  of  gleams  and 
shadows.  The  same  coquetiy  of  Nature  that  rippled  her 
hair  has  dinted  her  cheeks  with  shifting  dimples.  Every 
time  she  smiles  —  and  she  smiles  as  if  sixty  an  hour  were 
not  half-allowance  —  a  dimple  slides  into-  view  and  vanishes 
like  a  dot  in  a  flow  of  sunny  water.  And,  O  Peter  Skerrett ! 
if  you  were  not  the  best  fellow  in  the  world,  I  should  envy 
you  that  latent  kiss  of  a  mouth." 

"You  need  not  say  it,  Wade,  —  your  broken  head  ex- 
empts you  from  the  business  of  compliments,"  said  Peter ; 
"  but  I  see  you  think  my  wife  perfection.  You  '11  think  so 
the  more,  the  more  you  know  her." 

"  Stop,  Peter,"  said  she,  "  or  I  shall  have  to  hide  behind 
the  superior  charms  of  Mary  Darner." 

Miss  Darner  certainly  was  a  woman  of  a  grander  order. 
You  might  pull  at  the  bells  or  knock  at  the  knockers  and  be 
introduced  into  the  boudoirs  of  all  the  houses,  villas,  seats, 
chateaus,  and  palaces  in  Christendom  without  seeing  such 
another.  She  belonged  distinctly  to  the  Northern  races,  — 
the  "  brave  and  true  and  tender "  women.  There  was, 
indeed,  a  trace  of  hauteur  and  imperiousness  in  her  look 
and  manner;  but  it  did  not  ill  become  her  distinguished 


138  THEODORE  WINTHROP. 

figure  and  face.  Wade,  however,  remembered  her  sweet 
earnestness  when  she  was  playing  leech  to  his  wound,  and 
chose  to  take  that  mood  as  her  dominant  one. 

"  She  must  have  been  desperately  annoyed  with  borea 
and  boobies,"  he  thought.  "  I  do  not  wonder  she  protects 
herself  by  distance.  I  am  afraid  I  shall  never  get  within 
her  lines  again,  —  not  even  if  I  should  try  slow  and  regular 
approaches,  and  bombard  her  with  bouquets  for  a  twelve- 
month." 

"  But,  Wade,"  says  Peter,  "  all  this  time  you  have  not 
told  us  what  good  luck  sends  you  here  to  be  wrecked  on  the 
hospitable  shores  of  my  Point." 

"  I  live  here.  I  am  chief  cook  and  confectioner  where 
you  see  the  smoking  top  of  that  tall  chimney  up-stream." 

"  Why,  of  course  !  What  a  dolt  I  was,  not  to  think  of 
you,  when  Churm  told  us  an  Athlete,  a  .Brave,  a  Sage,  and 
a  Gentleman  was  the  Superintendent  of  Dunderbunk ;  but 
said  we  must  find  his  name  out  for  ourselves.  You  remem- 
ber, Mary.  Miss  Darner  is  Mr.  Churm's  ward." 

She  acknowledged  with  a  cool  bow  that  she  did  remem- 
ber her  guardian's  character  of  Wade. 

"  You  do  not  say,  Peter,"  says  Mrs.  Skerrett,  with  a 
bright  little  look  at  the  other  lady,  "  why  Mr.  Churm  was 
so  mysterious  about  Mr.  Wade." 

"  Miss  Darner  shall  tell  us,"  Peter  rejoined,  repeating  his 
wife's  look  of  merry  significance. 

She  looked  somewhat  teased.  Wade  could  divine  easily 
the  meaning  of  this  little  mischievous  talk.  His  friend 
Churm  had  no  doubt  puffed  him  furiously. 

"  All  this  time,"  said  Miss  Darner,  evading  a  reply,  "  we 
are  neglecting  our  skating  privileges." 

"  Peter  and  I  have  a  few  grains  of  humanity  in  our 
souls,"  Fanny  said.  "  We  should  blush  to  sail  away  from 
Mr.  Wade,  while  he  carries  the  quarantine  flag  at  his  pale 
cheeks." 


LOVE  AND  SKATES.  139 

"  I  am  almost  ruddy  again,"  says  Wade.  "  YoLr  potion, 
Miss  Darner,  has  completed  the  work  of  your  surgery.  I 
can  afford  to  dismiss  my  lamp-post." 

"  Whereupon  the  post  changes  to  a  teetotum,"  Peter  said, 
and  spun  off  in  an  eccentric,  ending  in  a  tumble. 

"  I  must  have  a  share  in  your  restoration,  Mr.  Wade," 
Fanny  claimed.  "  I  see  you  need  a  second  dose  of  medi- 
cine. Hand  me  the  flask,  Mary.  What  shall  I  pour  from 
this  magic  bottle  ?  juice  of  Rhine,  blood  of  Burgundy,  fire 
of  Spain,  bubble  of  Rheims,  beeswing  of  Oporto,  honey  of 
Cyprus,  nectar,  or  Whiskey  ?  Whiskey  is  vulgar,  but  the 
proper  thing,  on  the  whole,  for  these  occasions.  I  prescribe 
it."  And  she  gave  him  another  little  draught  to  imbibe. 

He  took  it  kindly,  for  her  sake,  —  and  not  alone  for  that, 
but  for  its  own  respectable  sake.  His  recovery  was  com- 
plete. His  head,  to  be  sure,  sang  a  little  still,  and  ached 
not  a  little.  Some  fellows  would  have  gone  on  the  sick 
list  with  such  a  wound.  Perhaps  he  would,  if  he  had  had 
a  trouble  to  dodge.  But  here  instead  was  a  pleasure  to 
follow.  So  he  began  to  move  about  slowly,  watching  the 
ladies.  » 

Fanny  was  a  novice  in  the  Art,  and  this  was  her  first 
lay  this  winter.  She  skated  timidly,  holding  Peter  very 
tightly.  She  went  into  the  dearest  little  panics  for  fear  of 
tumbles,  and  uttered  the  most  musical  screams  and  laughs. 
And  if  she  succeeded  in  taking  a  few  brave  strokes  and 
finished  witk  a  neat  slide,  she  pleaded  for  a  verdict  of 
"  Well  done  ! "  with  such  an  appealing  smile  and  such  a  fine 
show  of  dimples  that  every  one  was  fascinated  and  applauded 
heartily. 

Miss  Darner  skated  as  became  her  free  and  vigorous 
character.  She  had  passed  her  Little  Go  as  a  scholar, 
and  was  now  steadily  winning  her  way  through  the  list  of 
achievements,  before  given,  toward  the  Great  Go.  To-day 
she  was  at  work  at  small  circles  backward.  Presently  she 


140  THEODORE  WINTHROP. 

wound  off  a  series  of  perfectly  neat  ones,  and,  looking  up, 
pleased  with  her  prowess,  caught  Wade's  admiring  eye.  At 
this  she  smiled  and  gave  an  arch  little  womanly  nod  of  self- 
approval,  which  also  demanded  masculine  sympathy  before 
it  was  Vjuite  a  perfect  emotion. 

"With  this  charming  gesture,  the  alert  feather  in  her 
Amazonian  hat  nodded,  too,  as  if  it  admired  its  lovely 
mistress. 

Wade  was  thrilled.  "  Brava ! "  he  cried,  in  answer  to 
the  part  of  her  look  which  asked  sympathy ,  and  then,  in 
reply  to  the  implied  challenge,  he  forgot  his  hurt  and  his 
shock,  and  struck  into  the  same  figure. 

He  tried  not  to  surpass  his  fair  exemplar  too  cruelly. 
But  he  did  his  peripheries  well  enough  to  get  a  repetition 
of  the  captivating  nod  and  a  Bravo  !  from  the  lady. 

"  Bravo  ! "  said  she.  "  But  do  not  tax  your  strength  too 
soon." 

She  began  to  feel  that  she  was  expressing  too  much 
interest  in  the  stranger.  It  was  a  new  sensation  for  her  to 
care  whether  men  fell  or  got  up.  A  new  sensation.  She 
rather  liked  it.  She  was  a  trifle  ashamed  of  it.  In 
either  case,  she  did  not  wish  to  show  that  it  was  in  her 
heart..  The  consciousness  of  concealment  flushed  her 
damask  cheek. 

It  was  a  damask  cheek.  All  her  hues  were  cool  and 
pearly ;  while  Wade,  Saxon  too,  had  hot  golden  tints  in  his 
hair  and  moustache,  and  his  color,  now  returning,  was  good 
strong  red  with  plenty  of  bronze  in  it. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  replied.  "  My  force  has  all  come  back. 
You  have  electrified  me." 

A  civil  nothing;  but  meaning  managed  to  get  into  his 
tone  and  look,  whether  he  would  or  not. 

Winch  he  perceiving,  on  his  part  began  to  feel  guilty. 

Of  what  crime  ? 

Of  the  very  same  crime  as  hers,  —  the  most  ancient  and 


LOVE  AND  SKATES.  141 

most  pardonable  crime  of  youth  and  maiden,  —  that  sweet 
and  guiltless  crime  of  love  in  the  first  degree. 

So,  without  troubling  themselves  to  analyze  their  feelings, 
they  found  a  piquant  pleasure  in  skating  together,  —  she  in 
admiring  his  tours  de  force,  and  he  instructing  her. 

"  Look,  Peter ! "  said  Mrs.  Skerrett,  pointing  to  the  other 
pair  skating,  he  on  the  backward  roll,  she  on  the  forward, 
with  hands  crossed  and  locked;  —  such  contacts  are  per- 
mitted in  skating,  as  in  dancing.  "  Your  hero  and  my 
heroine  have  dropped  into  an  intimacy." 

"  None  but  the  Plucky  deserve  the  Pretty,"  says  Peter. 

"  But  he  seems  to  be  such  a  fine  fellow,  —  suppose  she 
should  n't  —  " 

The  pretty  face  looked  anxious. 

"  Suppose  he  should  n't,"  Peter  on  the  masculine  behalf 
returned.  , 

"  He  cannot  help  it :  Mary  is  so  noble,  —  and  so  charm- 
ing, when  she  does  not  disdain  to  be." 

"  I  do  not  believe  she  can  help  it.  She  cannot  disdain 
Wade.  He  carries  too  many  guns  for  that.  He  is  just  as 
fine  as  she  is.  He  was  a  hero  when  I  first  knew  him.  His 
face  does  not  show  an  atom  of  change ;  and  you  know  what 
Air.  Churm  told  us  of  his  chivalric  deeds  elsewhere,  and 
how  he  tamed  and  reformed  Dunderbunk.  He  is  crystal 
grit,  as  crystalline  and  gritty  as  he  can  be." 

"  Grit  seems  to  be  your  symbol  of  the  highest  qualities. 
It  certainly  is  a  better  thing  in  man  than  in  ice-cream. 
But,  Peter,  suppose  this  should  be  a  true  love  and  should 
not  run  smooth?" 

"  "What  consequence  is  the  smooth  running,  so  long  as 
there  is  strong  running  and  a  final  getting  in  neck  and  neck 
at  the  winning-post  ?  " 

"  But,"  still  pleaded  the  anxious  soul,  —  having  no  anxie- 
ties of  her  t  wn,  she  was  always  suffering  for  others,  —  "  he 
eeems  to  be  such  a  fine  fellow  !  and  she  is  so  hard  to  win  1  * 


142  THEODORE  WINTER OP. 

«Am  I  a  fine  fellow?" 

«  No,  —  horrid  ! " 

"  The  truth,  —  or  I  let  you  tumble." 

"  Well,  upon  compulsion,  I  admit  that  you  are." 

"  Then  being  a  fine  fellow  does  not  diminish  the  said  fel- 
low's chances  of  being  blessed  with  a  wife  quite  superfine." 

"  If  I  thought  you  were  personal,  Peter,  I  should  object 
to  the  mercantile  adjective.  '  Superfine,'  indeed  ! " 

"  I  am  personal.  I  withdraw  the  obnoxious  phrase,  and 
substitute  transcendent.  No,  Fanny  dear,  I  read  Wade's 
experience  in  my  own.  I  do  not  feel  very  much  concerned 
about  him.  He  is  big  enough  to  take  care  of  himself.  A 
man  who  is  sincere,  self-possessed,  and  steady,  does  not  get 
into  miseries  with  beautiful  Amazons  like  our  friend.  He 
knows  too  much  to  try  to  make  his  love  run  up  hill ;  but  let 
it  once  get  started,  rough  running  gives  it  vim.  Wade  will 
love  like  a  deluge,  when  he  sees  that  he  may,  and  I  'd 
advise  obstacles  to  stand  off." 

"  It  was  pretty,  Peter,  to  see  cold  Mary  Darner  so  gentle 
and  almost  tender." 

"  I  always  have  loved  to  see  the  first  beginnings  of  what 
looks  like  love,  since  I  saw  ours." 

"  Ours,"  she  said,  —  "  it  seems  like  yesterday." 

And  then  together  they  recalled  that  fair  picture  against 
its  dark  ground  of  sorrow,  and  so  went  on  refreshing  the 
emotions  of  that  time,  until  Fanny  smiling  said,  — 

"  There  must  be  something  magical  in  skates,  for  here  we 
are  talking  sentimentally  like  a  pair  of  young  lovers." 

"  Health  and  love  are  cause  and  effect,"  says  Peter,  sen- 
tentiously. 

Meanwhile  Wade  had  been  fast  skating  into  the  good 
graces  of  his  companion.  Perhaps  the  rap  on  his  head  had 
deranged  him.  He  certainly  tossed  himself  about  in  a 
reckless  and  insane  way.  Still,  he  justified  his  conduct  by 
never  tumbling  again,  and  by  inventing  new  devices  with 
bewildering  rapidity. 


LOVE  AND  SKATES.  143 

This  pair  were  not  at  all  sentimental.  Indeed,  their  talk 
was  quite  technical :  all  about  rings  and  edges,  and  heel  and 
toe,  —  what  skates  are  best,  and  who  best  use  them.  There 
is  an  immense  amount  of  sympathy  to  be  exchanged  on  such 
topics,  and  it  was  somewhat  significant  that  they  avoided 
other  themes  where  they  might  not  sympathize  so  thor- 
oughly. The  negative  part  of  a  conversation  is  often  as 
important  as  its  positive. 

So  the  four  entertained  themselves  finely,  sometimes  as  a 
quartette,  sometimes  as  two  duos  with  proper  change.0  of 
partners,  until  the  clear  west  began  to  grow  golden  and  the 
clear  east  pink  with  sunset. 

"  It  is  a  pity  to  go,"  said  Peter  Skerrett.  "  Everything 
here  is  perfection  and  Fine  Art;  but  we  must  not  be 
unfaithful  to  dinner.  Dinner  would  have  a  right  to  pun- 
ish us,  if  we  did  not  encourage  its  efforts  to  be  Fine  Art 
also." 

"  Now,  Mr.  Wade,"  Fanny  commanded,  "  your  most 
heroic  series  of  exploits,  to  close  this  heroic  day." 

He  nimbly  dashed  through  his  list.  The  ice  was  traced 
with  a  labyrinth  of  involuted  convolutions. 

Wade's  last  turn  brought  him  to  the  very  spot  of  his 
tumble. 

"  All ! "  said  he.  "  Here  is  the  oar  that  tripped  me,  with 
'  Wade,  his  mark,'  gashed  into  it.  If  I  had  not  this,"  —  he 
touched  Miss  Darner's  handkerchief,  —  "for  a  souvenir,  I 
think  I  would  dig  up  the  oar  and  carry  it  home." 

"  Let  it  melt  out  and  float  away  in  the  spring,"  Mary 
said.  "It  may  be  a  perch  for  a  sea-gull  or  a  buoy  for  a 
drowning  man." 

Here,  if  this  were  a  long  story  instead  of  a  short  OE3, 
might  be  given  a  description  of  Peter  Skerrett's  house  and 
the  menu  of  Mrs.  Skerrett's  dinner.  Peter  and  his  wife 
had  both  been  to  great  pillory  dinners,  ad  nauseam,  and 
learnt  what  to  avoid.  How  not  to  be  bored  is  the  object 


144  THEODORE  WINTHROP. 

of  all  civilization,  and  the  Skerretts  had  discovered  the 
methods. 

I  must  dismiss  the  dinner  and  the  evening,  stamped  with 
the  general  epithet,  Perfection. 

"  You  will  join  us  again  to-morrow  on  the  river,"  said 
Mrs.  Skerrett,  as  Wade  rose  to  go. 

"  To-morrow  I  go  to  town  to  report  to  my  Directors." 

"Then  next  day." 

"Next  day,  with  pleasure." 

Wade  departed  and  marked  this  halcyon  day  with  white 
chalk,  as  the  whitest,  brightest,  sweetest  of  his  life. 


CHAPTER    X. 

FOREBODINGS. 

JUBILATION!  Jubilation  now,  instead  of  Consternation, 
in  the  office  of  Mr.  Benjamin  Brummage  in  Wall  Street. 

President  Brummage  had  convoked  his  Directors  to  hear 
the  First  Semi- Annual  Report  of  the  new  Superintendent 
and  Dictator  of  Dunderbunk. 

And  there  they  sat  around  the  green  table,  no  longer 
forlorn  and  dreading  a  failure,  but  all  chuckling  with  satis- 
faction over  their  prosperity. 

They  were  a  happy  and  hilarious  family  now,  —  so 
hilarious  that  the  President  was  obliged  to  be  always  rap- 
ping to  Orderr  with  his  paper-knife. 

Every  one  of  these  gentlemen  was  proud  of  himself  as  a 
Director  of  so  successful  a  Company.  The  Dunderbunk 
advertisement  might  now  consider  itself  as  permanent  in 
the  newspapers,  and  the  Treasurer  had  very  unnecessarily 
inserted  the  notice  of  a  dividend,  which  everybody  knew  of 
already. 

When  Mr.  Churm  was  not  by,  they  all  claimed  the  honor 
of  having  discovered  Wade,  or  at  least  of  having  been  the 
first  to  appreciate  him. 


LOVE  AND  SKATES.  145 

They  all  invited  him  to  dinner,  —  the  others  at  their 
houses,  Sam  Gwelp  at  his  club. 

They  had  not  yet  begun  to  wax  fat  and  kick.  They  still 
remembered  the  panic  of  last  summer.  They  passed  a 
unanimous  vote  of  the  most  complimentary  confidence  in 
Wade,  approved  of  his  system,  forced  upon  him  an  increase 
of  salary,  and  began  to  talk  of  "  launching  out "  and  doub- 
ling their  capital.  In  short,  they  behaved  as  Directors  do 
when  all  is  serene. 

Churm  and  Wade  had  a  hearty  laugh  over  the  ab- 
surdities of  the  Board  and  all  •  their  vague  propositions. 

"  Dunderbunk,"  said  Churm,  "  was  a  company  started  on 
a  sentimental  basis,  as  many  others  are." 

"  Mr.  Brummage  fell  in  love  with  pig-iron  ?  " 

"  Precisely.  He  had  been  a  dry-goods  jobber,  risen  from 
a  retailer  somewhere  in  the  country.  He  felt  a  certain  lack 
of  dignity  in  his  work.  He  wanted  to  deal  in  something 
more  masculine  than  lace  and  ribbons.  He  read  a  sen- 
timental article  on  Iron  in  the  '  Journal  of  Commerce ' :  how 
Iron  held  the  world  together ;  how  it  was  nerve  and  sinew ; 
how  it  was  ductile  and  malleable  and  other  things  that 
sounded  big  ;  how  without  Iron  civilization  would  stop,  and 
New-Zealanders  hunt  rats  among  the  ruins  of  London ; 
how  anybody  who  would  make  two  tons  of  Iron  grow  where 
one  grew  before  was  a  benefactor  to  the  human  race  greater 
than  Alexander,'  Caesar,  or  Napoleon;  and  so  on,  —  you 
know  the  eloquent  style.  Brummage's  soul  was  fired.  He 
determined  to  be  greater  than  the  three  heroes  named.  He 
was  oozing  Avith  unoccupied  capital.  He  went  about  among 
the  other  rich  jobbers,  with  the  newspaper  article  in  his 
hand,  and  fired  their  souls.  They  determined  to  be  great 
Iron-Kings,  —  magnificent  thought !  They  wanted  to  read 
in  the  newspapers,  *  If  all  the  iron  rails  made  at  the  Dun- 
derbunk Works  in  the  last  six  months  were  put  together  in 
a  straight  line,  they  would  reach  twice  round  our  terraque« 

10 


146  THEODORE  WINTHROP. 

ous  globe  and  seventy-three  miles  two  rails  over.'  So  on 
that  poetic  foundation  they  started  the  concern." 

Wade  laughed.  "  But  how  did  you  happen  to  be  with 
them?" 

"  Oh  !  my  friend  Darner  sold  them  the  land  for  the  shop 
and  took  stock  in  payment.  I  came  into  the  Board  as  his 
executor.  Did  I  never  tell  you  so  before  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Well,  then,  be  informed  that  it  was  in  Miss  Darner's 
behalf  that  you  knocked  down  Friend  Tarbox,  and  so  got 
your  skates  for  saving  her  property.  It 's  quite  a  romance 
already,  Richard,  my  boy  !  and  I  suppose  you  feel  im- 
mensely bored  that  you  had  to  come  down  and  meet  us  old 
chaps,  instead  of  tumbling  at  her  feet  on  the  ice  again  to- 
day." 

"  A  tumble  in  this  wet  day  would  be  a  cold  bath  to 
romance." 

The  Gulf  Stream  had  sent  up  a  warm  spoil-sport  rain 
that  morning.  It  did  not  stop,  but  poured  furiously  the 
whole  day. 

From  Cohoes  to  Spuyten  Duyvil,  on  both  sides  of  the 
river,  all  the  skaters  swore  at  the  weather,  as  profane  per- 
sons no  doubt  did  when  the  windows  of  heaven  were  opened 
in  Noah's  time.  The  skateresses  did  not  swear,  but  sav- 
agely said,  "  It  is  too  bad,"  —  and  so  it  was. 

Wade,  loaded  with  the  blessings  of  his  Directors,  took  the 
train  next  morning  for  Dunderbunk. 

The  weather  was  still  mild  and  drizzly,  but  promised  to 
clear.  As  the  train  rattled  along  by  the  river,  Wade  could 
see  that  the  thin  ice  was  breaking  up  everywhere.  In  mid- 
stream a  procession  of  blocks  was  steadily  drifting  along. 
Unless  Zero  came  sliding  down  again  pretty  soon  from 
Boreal  regions,  the  sheets  that  filled  the  coves  and  clung 
to  the  shores  would  also  sail  away  southward,  and  the  whole 
Hudson  he  left  clear  as  in  midsummer. 


LOVE  AND  SKATES.  147 

At  Yonkers  a  down  train  ranged  by  the  side  of  Wade's 
tram,  and,  looking  out  he  saw  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Skerrett 
alighting. 

He  jumped  down,  rather  surprised,  to  speak  to  them. 

"  We  have  just  been  telegraphed  here,"  said  Peter,  grave- 
ly. "  The  son  of  a  widow,  a  friend  of  ours,  was  drowned 
this  morning  in  the  soft  ice  of  the  river.  He  was  a  pet  of 
mine,  poor  fellow!  and  the  mother  depends  upon  me  for 
advice.  We  have  come  down  to  say  a  kind  word.  Why 
won't  you  report  us  to  the  ladies  at  my  house,  and  say 
we  shall  not  be  at  home  until  the  evening  train  ?  They 
do  not  know  the  cause  of  our  journey  except  that  it  is 
a  sad  one." 

"  Perhaps  Mr.  Wade  will  carve  their  turkey  for  them  at 
dinner,  Peter,"  Fanny  suggested. 

"  Do,  Wade !  and  keep  their  spirits  up.  Dinner  's  at 
six." 

Here  the  engine  whistled.  Wade  promised  to  "shine 
substitute "  at  his  friend's  board,  and  took  his  place  again. 
The  train  galloped  away. 

Peter  and  his  wife  exchanged  a  bright  look  over  the 
fortunate  incident  of  this  meeting,  and  went  on  their  kind 
way  to  carry  sympathy  and  such  consolation  as  might  be 
to  the  widow. 

The  train  galloped  northward.  Until  now,  the  beat  of 
its  wheels,  like  the  click  of  an  enormous  metronome,  had 
kept  time  to  jubilant  measures  singing  in  Wade's  brain. 
He  was  hurrying  back,  exhilarated  with  success,  to  the 
presence  of  a  woman  whose  smile  was  finer  exhilaration 
than  any  number  of  votes  of  confidence,  passed  unanimously 
by  any  number  of  conclaves  of  overjoyed  Directors,  and 
signed  by  Brummage  after  Brummage,  with  the  signature 
of  a  capitalist  in  a  flurry  of  delight  at  a  ten  per  cent  divi- 
dend. 

But  into  this  joyous  mood  of  Wade's  the  thought  of  death 


148  THEODORE  WINTHROP. 

suddenly  intruded.  He  could  not  keep  a  picture  of  death 
and  drowning  out  of  his  mind.  As  the  train  sprang  along 
and  opened  gloomy  breadth  after  breadth  of  the  leaden 
river,  clogged  with  slow-drifting  files  of  ice-blocks,  he  found 
himself  staring  across  the  dreary  waste  and  forever  fancy- 
ing some  one  sinking  there,  helpless  and  alone. 

He  seemed  to  see  a  brave,  bright-eyed,  ruddy  boy  ven- 
turing out  carelessly  along  the  edges  of  the  weakened  ice. 
Suddenly  the  ice  gives  way,  the  little  figure  sinks,  rises, 
clutches  deperately  at  a  fragment,  struggles  a  moment,  is 
borne  along  in  the  relentless  flow  of  the  chilly  water,  stares 
in  vain  shoreward,  and  so  sinks  again  with  a  look  of  agony, 
and  is  gone. 

But  whenever  this  inevitable  picture  grew  before  Wade's 
eyes,  as  the  drowning  figure  of  his  fancy  vanished,  it  sud- 
denly changed  features,  and  presented  the  face  of  Mary 
Darner,  perishing  beyond  succor. 

Of  course  he  knew  that  this  was  but  a  morbid  vision. 
Yet  that  it  came  at  all,  and  that  it  so  agonized  him, 
proved  the  force  of  his  new  feeling. 

He  had  not  analyzed  it  before.  This  thought  of  death 
became  its  touchstone. 

Men  like  Wade,  strong,  healthy,  earnest,  concentrated, 
straightforward,  isolated,  judge  men  and  women  as  friends  or 
foes  at  once  and  once  for  all.  He  had  recognized  in  Mary 
Darner  from  the  first  a  heart  as  true,  whole,  noble,  and 
healthy  as  his  own.  A  fine  instinct  had  told  him  that  she 
was  waiting  for  her  hero,  as  he  was  for  his  heroine. 

So  he  suddenly  loved  her.  And  yet  not  suddenly ;  for 
all  his  life,  and  all  his  lesser  forgotten  or  discarded  passions, 
had  been  training  him  for  this  master  one. 

He  suddenly  and  strongly  loved  her ;  and  yet  it  had  only 
been  a  beautiful  bewilderment  of  uncomprehended  delight, 
until  this  haunting  vision  of  her  fair  face  sinking  amid  the 
hungry  ice  beset  him.  Then  he  perceived  what  would  be 
lost  to  him,  if  she  were  lost 


LOVE  AND  SKATES.  149 

The  thought  of  Death  placed  itself  between  him  and 
Love.  If  the  love  had  been  merely  a  pretty  remembrance 
of  a  charming  woman,  he  might  have  dismissed  his  fancied 
drowning  scene  with  a  little  emotion  of  regret  Now,  the 
fancy  was  an  agony. 

He  had  too  much  power  over  himself  to  entertain  it  long. 
But  the  grisly  thought  came  uninvited,  returned  undesired, 
and  no  resolute  Avaunt,  even  backed  by  that  magic  wand,  a 
cigar,  availed  to  banish  it  wholly. 

The  sky  cleared  cold  at  eleven  o'clock.  A  sharp  wind 
drew  through  the  Highlands.  As  the  train  rattled  round 
the  curve  below  the  tunnel  through  Skerrett's  Point,  Wade 
could  see  his  skating  course  of  Christmas  day  with  the 
ladies.  Finn  ice,  glazed  smooth  by  the  sudden  chill  after 
the  rain,  filled  the  Cove  and  stretched  beyond  the  Point 
into  the  river. 

It  was  treacherous  stuff,  beautiful  to  the  eyes  of  a  skater, 
but  sure  to  be  weak,  and  likely  to  break  up  any  moment 
and  join  the  deliberate  headlong  drift  of  the  masses  in  mid- 
current. 

Wade  almost  dreaded  lest  his  vision  should  suddenly 
realize  itself,  and  he  should  see  his  enthusiastic  companion 
of  the  other  day  sailing  gracefully  along  to  certain  death. 

Nothing  living,  however,  was  in  sight,  except  here  and 
there  a  crow,  skipping  about  in  the  floating  ice. 

The  lover  was  greatly  relieved.  He  could  now  forewarn 
the  lady  against  the  peril  he  had  imagined.  The  train  in  a 
moment  dropped  him  at  Dunderbunk.  He  hurried  to  the 
Foundry  and  wrote  a  note  to  Mrs.  Darner. 

"  Mr.  Wade  presents  his  compliments  to  Mrs.  Darner,  and 
has  the  honor  to  inform  her  that  Mr.  Skerrett  has  nomi- 
nated him  carver  to  the  ladies  to-day  in  their  host's  place. 

"  Mr.  Wade  hopes  that  Miss  Darner  will  excuse  him  from 
his  engagement  to  skate  with  her  tin's  afternoon.  The  ice  is 
dangerous,  and  Miss  Darner  should  on  no  account  venture 
upon  it." 


150  THEODORE  WTNTHROP. 

Perry  Purtett  was  the  bearer  of  this  billet.  He  swag- 
gered into  Peter  Skerrett's  hall,  and  dreadfully  alarmed  the 
fresh-imported  Englishman  who  answered  the  bell,  by  order- 
ing him  in  a  severe  tone,  — 

"  Hurry  up,  now,  White  Cravat,  with  that  answer !  I  'm 
wanted  down  at  the  Works.  Steam  don't  bile  when  I'm 
off;  and  the  fly-wheel  will  never  buzz  another  turn,  unless 
I  'm  there  to  motion  it  to  move  on." 

Mrs.  Darner's  gracious  reply  informed  Wade  "that  she 
should  be  charmed  to  see  him  at  dinner,  etc.,  and  would  not 
fail  to  transmit  his  kind  warning  to  Miss  Darner,  when  she 
returned  from  her  drive  to  make  calls." 

But  when  Miss  Darner  returned  in  the  afternoon,  her 
mother  was  taking  a  gentle  nap  over  the  violet,  indigo,  blue, 
green,  yellow,  orange,  red  stripes  of  a  gorgeous  Afghan  she 
was  knitting.  The  daughter  heard  nothing  of  the  billet. 
The  house  was  lonely  without  Fanny  Skerrett.  Mr.  Wade 
did  not  come  at  the  appointed  hour.  Mary  was  not  willing 
to  say  to  herself  how  much  she  regretted  his  absence. 

Had  he  forgotten  the  appointment  ? 

No,  —  that  was  a  thought  not  to  be  tolerated. 

"  A  gentleman  does  not  forget,"  she  thought,  and  she  haa 
a  thorough  confidence,  besides,  that  this  gentleman  was  very 
willing  to  remember. 

She  read  a  little,  fitfully,  sang  fitfully,  moved  about  the 
house  uneasily ;  and  at  last,  when  it  grew  late,  and  she  was 
bored  and  Wade  did  not  arrive,  she  pronounced  to  herself 
that  he  had  been  detained  in  town. 

This  point  settled,  she  took  her  skates,  put  on  her  pretty 
Amazonian  hat  with  its  alert  feather,  and  went  down  to 
waste  her  beauty  and  grace  on  the  ice,  unattended  and 
aloue> 


LOVE  AND  SKATES.  151 

CHAPTER    XI. 

CAP'N  AMBDSTEB'S  SKIFF. 

IT  was  a  busy  afternoon  at  the  Dunderbunk  Foundry. 

The  Superintendent  had  come  back  with  his  pocket  fid] 
rf  orders.  Everybody,  from  the  Czar  of  Russia  to  the 
Piesident  of  the  Guano  Republic,  was  in  the  market  for 
machinery.  Crisis  was  gone  by.  Prosperity  was  come. 
The  world  was  all  ready  to  move,  and  only  waited  for  a 
fresh  supply  of  wheels,  cranks,  side-levers,  walking-beams, 
and  other  such  muscular  creatures  of  iron,  to  push  and  tug 
and  swing  and  revolve  and  set  Progress  a-going. 

Dunderfcunk  was  to  have  its  full  share  in  supplying  the 
demand.  It  was  well  understood  by  this  time  that  the  iron 
Wade  made  was  as  stanch  as  the  man  who  made  it.  Dun- 
derbunk, therefore,  Head  and  Hands,  must  despatch. 

So  it  was  a  busy  afternoon  at  the  industrious  Foundry. 
The  men  bestirred  themselves.  The  furnaces  rumbled. 
The  engine  thumped.  The  drums  in  the  finishing-shop 
hummed  merrily  their  lively  song  of  labor.  The  four  trip- 
hammers —  two  bull-headed,  two  calf-headed  —  champed, 
like  carnivorous  maws,  upon  red  bars  of  iron,  and  over 
their  banquet  they  roared  the  big-toned  music  of  the  trip- 
hammer chorus. 

"Now  then!  hit  hard! 
Strike  while  Iron 's  hot.     Life  's  short     Art 's  long." 

By  this  massive  refrain,  ringing  in  at  intervals  above  the 
ceaseless  buzz,  murmur,  and  clang  throughout  the  buildings, 
every  man's  work  was  mightily  nerved  and  inspired.  Every- 
body liked  to  hear  the  sturdy  song  of  these  grim  vocalists  ; 
and  whenever  they  struck  in,  each  solo  or  duo  or  quatuor 
of  men,  playing  Anvil  Chorus,  quickened  time,  and  all  the 
action  and  rumor  of  the  busy  opera  went  on  more  cheerilj 
and  lustily.  So  work  kept  astir  like  play. 


152  THEODORE   WINTHROP. 

An  hour  before  sunset,  Bill  Tarbox  stepped  into  Wade's 
office.  Even  oily  and  begrimed,  Bill  could  be  recognized  as 
a  favored  lover.  He  looked  more  a  man  than  ever  before. 

"  I  forgot  to  mention,"  says  the  foreman,  "  that  Cap'n 
Ambuster  was  in,  this  morning,  to  see  you.  He  says,  that, 
if  the  river 's  clear  enough  for  him  to  get  away  from  our 
dock,  he  '11  go  down  to  the  City  to-morrow,  and  offers  to 
take  freight  cheap.  We  might  put  that  new  walking-beam, 
we  've  just  rough-finished  for  the  '  Union,'  aboard  of  him." 

"  Yes,  —  if  he  is  sure  to  go  to-morrow.  It  will  not  do  to 
delay.  The  owners  complained  to  me  yesterday  that  the 
4  Union '  was  in  a  bad  way  for  want  of  its  new  machinery. 
Tell  your  brother-in-law  to  come  here,  Bill." 

Tarbox  looked  sheepishly  pleased,  and  summoned  Perry 
Purtett. 

"  Run  down,  Perry,"  said  Wade,  "  to  the  '  Ambuster,'  and 
ask  Captain  Isaac  to  step  up  here  a  moment.  Tell  him  I 
have  some  freight  to  send  by  him." 

Perry  moved  through  the  Foundry  with  his  usual  jaunty 
step,  left  his  dignity  at  the  door,  and  ran  off  to  the  dock. 

The  weather  had  grown  fitful.  Heavy  clouds  whirled 
over,  trailing  snow-flurries.  Rarely  the  sun  found  a  cleft  in 
the  black  canopy  to  shoot  a  ray  through  and  remind  the 
world  that  he  was  still  in  his  place  and  ready  to  shine  when 
he  was  wanted. 

Master  Perry  had  a  furlong  to  go  before  he  reached  the 
dock.  He  crossed  the  stream,  kept  unfrozen  by  the  warm 
influences  of  the  Foundry.  He  ran  through  a  little  dell 
hedged  on  each  side  by  dull  green  cedars.  It  was  severely 
cold  now,  and  our  young  friend  condescended  to  prance  and 
jump  over  the  ice-skimmed  puddles  to  keep  his  blood  in 
motion. 

The  little  rusty,  pudgy  steamboat  lay  at  the  down-stream 
side  of  the  Foundry  Wharf.  Her  name  was  so  long  and 
her  paddle-box  so  short,  that  the  painter,  beginning  with 


LOVE  AND  SKATES.  153 

ambitious  large  letters,  had  been  compelled  to  abbreviate 
the  last  syllable.     Her  title  read  thus :  — 

I.  AMBUSTer. 

Certainly  a  formidable  inscription  for  a  steamboat ! 

When  she  hove  in  sight,  Perry  halted,  resumed  his 
stately  demeanor,  and  embarked  as  if  he  were  a  Doge 
entering  a  Bucentaur  to  wed  a  Sea. 

There  was  nobody  on  deck  to  witness  the  arrival  and 
salute  the  magnijico. 

Perry  looked  in  at  the  CapVs  office.  He  beheld  a  three- 
legged  stool,  a  hacked  desk,  an  inky  steel-pen,  an  inkless 
inkstand ;  but  no  Cap'n  Ambuster. 

Perry  inspected  the  Cap'n's  state-room.  There  was  a 
cracked  looking-glass,  into  which  he  looked ;  a  hair-brush 
suspended  by  the  glass,  which  he  used ;  a  lair  of  blankets  in 
a  berth,  which  he  had  no  present  use  for  ;  and  a  smell  of 
musty  boots,  which  nobody  with  a  nose  could  help  smelling. 
Still  no  Captain  Ambuster,  nor  any  of  his  crew. 

Search  in  the  unsavory  kitchen  revealed  no  cook,  coiled 
up  in  a  corner,  suffering  nightmares  for  the  last  greasy 
dinner  he  had  brewed  hi  his  frying-pan.  There  were  no 
deck  hands  bundled  into  their  bunks.  Perry  rapped  on  the 
chain-box  and  inquired  if  anybody  was  within,  and  nobody 
answering,  he  had  to  ventriloquize  a  negative. 

The  engine-room,  too,  was  vacant,  and  quite  as  unsavory 
as  the  other  dens  on  board.  Perry  patronized  the  engine 
by  a  pull  or  two  at  the  valves,  and  continued  his  tour  of 
inspection. 

The  Ambuster's  skiff,  lying  on  her  forward  deck,  seemed 
to  entertain  him  vastly. 

"  Jolly ! "  says  Perry.  And  so  it  was  a  jolly  boat  in  the 
literal,  not  the  technical  sense. 

"  The  three  wise  men  of  Gotham  went  to  sea  in  a  bowl ; 
and  here  's  the  identical  craft,"  says  Perry. 


154  THEODORE  WINTHROP. 

He  gave  the  chubby  little  machine  a  push  with  his  foot 
It  rolled  and  wallowed  about  grotesquely.  When  it  was 
still  again,  it  looked  so  comic,  lying  contentedly  on  its  fat 
side  like  a  pudgy  baby,  that  Perry  had  a  roar  of  laughter, 
which,  like  other  laughter  to  one's  self,  did  not  sound  very 
merry,  particularly  as  the  north-wind  was  howling  omi- 
nously, and  the  broken  ice,  on  its  downward  way,  was 
whispering  and  moaning  and  talking  on  in  a  most  mysteri- 
ous and  inarticulate  manner. 

"  Those  sheets  of  ice  would  crunch  up  this  skiff,  as  pigs 
do  a  punkin,"  thinks  Perry. 

And  with  this  ^thought  in  his  head  he  looked  out  on  the 
river,  and  fancied  the  foolish  little  vessel  cast  loose  and 
buffeting  helplessly  about  in  the  ice. 

He  had  been  so  busy  until  now,  in  prying  about  the 
steamboat  and  making  up  his  mind  that  Captain  and  men 
had  all  gone  off  for  a  comfortable  supper  on  shore,  that  his 
eyes  had  not  wandered  toward  the  stream. 

Now  his  glance  began  to  follow  the  course  of  the  icy  cur- 
rent. He  wondered  where  all  this  supply  of  cakes  came 
from,  and  how  many  of  them  would  escape  the  stems  of 
ferry-boats  below  and  get  safe  to  sea. 

All  at  once,  as  he  looked  lazily  along  the  lazy  files  of  ice, 
his  eyes  caught  a  black  object  drifting  on  a  fragment  in  a 
wide  way  of  open  water  opposite  Skerrett's  Point,  a  mile 
distant. 

Perry's  heart  stopped  beating.  He  uttered  a  little  gasp- 
ing cry.  He  sprang  ashore,  not  at  all  like  a  Doge  quitting 
a  Bucentaur.  He  tore  back  to  the  Foundry,  dashing 
through  the  puddles,  and,  never  stopping  to  pick  up  his  cap, 
burst  in  upon  Wade  and  Bill  Tarbox  in  the  office. 

The  boy  was  splashed  from  head  to  foot  with  red  mud. 
His  light  hair,  blown  wildly  about,  made  his  ashy  face  seem 
paler.  He  stood  panting. 

His  dumb  terror  brought  back  to  Wade's  mind  all  the  bad 
omens  of  the  morning. 


LOVE  AND  SKATES.  155 

*  Speak  1 "  said  he,  seizing  Peny  fiercely  by  the  shoulder. 

The  uproar  of  the  Works  seemed  to  hush  for  an  instant, 
while  the  lad  stammered  faintly, — 

"  There  's  somebody  carried  off  in  the  ice  by  Skerrett's 
Point.  It  looks  like  a  woman.  And  there  's  nobody  to 
help." 


CHAPTER    XII. 

IN   THE   ICE. 

"  HELP  !  help ! "  shouted  the  four  trip-hammers,  bursting 
ji  like  a  magnified  echo  of  the  boy's  last  word.  "  Help ! 
help ! "  all  the  humming  wheels  and  drums  repeated  more 
plaintively. 

Wade  made  for  the  river. 

This  was  the  moment  all  his  manhood  had  been  training 
and  saving  for.  For  this  he  had  kept  sound  and  brave  from 
his  youth  up. 

As  he  ran,  he  felt  that  the  only  chance  of  instant  help 
was  in  that  queer  little  bowl-shaped  skiff  of  the  "  Am- 
buster." 

He  had  never  been  conscious  that  he  had  observed  it ; 
but  the  image  had  lain  latent  in  his  mind,  biding  its  time. 
It  might  be  ten,  twenty  precious  moments  before  another 
boat  could  be  found.  This  one  was  on  the  spot  to  do  its 
duty  at  once. 

"  Somebody  carried  off,  —  perhaps  a  woman,"  Wade 
thought.  "  Not  —  No,  she  would  not  neglect  my  warn- 
ing !  Whoever  it  is,  we  must  save  her  from  this  dreadful 
death!" 

He  sprang  on  board  the  little  steamboat.  She  was  sway- 
ing uneasily  at  her  moorings,  as  the  ice  crowded  along  and 
hammered  against  her  stem.  Wade  stared  from  her  deck 
down  the  river,  with  all  his  life  at  his  eyes. 


156  THEODORE  WINTHROP. 

More  than  a  mile  away,  below  the  hemlock-crested  point, 
was  the  dark  object  Perry  had  seen,  still  stirring  along  the 
edges  of  the  floating  ice.  A  broad  avenue  of  leaden-green 
water  wrinkled  by  the  cold  wind  separated  the  field  where 
this  figure  was  moving  from  the  shore.  Dark  object  and  its 
footing  of  gray  ice  were  drifting  deliberately  farther  and 
farther  away. 

For  one  instant  Wade  thought  that  the  terrible  dread  in 
his  heart  would  paralyze  him.  But  in  that  one  moment, 
while  his  blood  stopped  flowing  and  his  nerves  failed,  Bill 
Tarbox  overtook  him  and  was  there  by  his  side. 

"  I  brought  your  cap,"  says  Bill,  "  and  our  two  coats." 

"Wade  put  on  his  cap  mechanically.  This  little  action 
calmed  him. 

"  Bill,"  said  he,  "  I  'm  afraid  it  is  a  woman,  —  a  dear 
friend  of  mine,  —  a  very  dear  friend." 

Bill,  a  lover,  understood  the  tone. 

"  We  '11  take  care  of  her  between  us,"  he  said. 

The  two  turned  at  once  to  the  little  tub  of  a  boat. 

Oars  ?  Yes,  —  slung  under  the  thwarts,  —  a  pair  of 
short  sculls,  worn  and  split,  but  with  work  in  them  still. 
There  they  hung  ready,  —  and  a  rusty  boat-hook,  besides. 

"  Find  the  thole-pins,  Bill,  while  I  cut  a  plug  for  her  bot- 
tom out  of  this  broomstick,"  Wade  said. 

This  was  done  in  a  moment.    "Bill  threw  in  the  coats. 

"  Now,  together ! " 

They  lifted  the  skiff  to  the  gangway.  Wade  jumped 
down  on  the  ice  and  received  her  carefully.  They  ran 
her  along,  as  far  as  they  could  go,  and  launched  her  in  the 
sludge. 

"  Take  the  sculls,  Bill.  1 11  work  the  boat-hook  in  the 
bow." 

Nothing  more  was  said.  They  thrust  out  with  their  crazy 
little  craft  into  the  thick  of  the  ice-flood.  Bill,  amidships, 
dug  with  his  sculls  in  among  the  huddled  cakes.  It  was 


LOVE  AND  SKATES.  157 

clumsy  pulling.  Now  this  oar  and  now  that  would  be 
thrown  out  He  could  never  get  a  full  stroke. 

Wade  in  the  bow  could  do  better.  He  jammed  the 
blocks  aside  with  his  boat-hook.  He  dragged  the  skiff 
forward.  He  steered  through  the  little  open  ways  of 
water. 

Sometimes  they  came  to  a  broad  sheet  of  solid  ice. 
Then  it  was  "  Out  with  her,  Bill ! "  and  they  were  both 
out  and  sliding  their  bowl  so  quick  over,  that  they  had 
not  time  to  go  through  the  rotten  surface.  This  was 
drowning  business ;  but  neither  could  be  spared  to  drown 
yet. 

In  the  leads  of  clear  water,  the  oarsman  got  brave  pulls, 
and  sent  the  boat  on  mightily.  Then  again  in  the  thick 
porridge  of  brash  ice  they  lost  headway,  or  were  baffled  and 
stopped  among  the  cakes.  Slow  work,  slow  and  painful ; 
and  for  many  minutes  they  seemed  to  gain  nothing  upon 
the  steady  flow  of  the  merciless  current. 

A  frail  craft  for  such  a  voyage,  this  queer  little  half- 
pumpkin  !  A  frail  and  leaky  shell.  She  bent  and  cracked 
from  stem  to  stern  among  the  nipping  masses.  Water 
oozed  in  through  her  dry  seams.  Any  moment  a  rougher 
touch  or  a  sharper  edge  might  cut  her  through.  But  that 
was  a  risk  they  had  accepted.  They  did  not  take  time  to 
think  of  it,  nor  to  listen  to  the  crunching  and  crackling  of 
the  hungry  ice  around.  They  urged  straight  on,  steadily, 
eagerly,  coolly,  spending  and  saving  strength. 

Not  one  moment  to  lose  !  The  shattering  of  broad  sheets 
of  ice  around  them  was  a  warning  of  what  might  happen  to 
the  frail  support  of  their  chase.  One  thrust  of  the  boat- 
hook  sometimes  cleft  a  cake  that  to  the  eye  seemed  stout 
enough  to  bear  a  heavier  weight  than  a  woman's. 

Not  one  moment  to  spare  !  The  dark  figure,  now  drifted 
far  below  the  hemlocks  of  the  Point,  no  longer  stirred.  It 
seemed  to  have  sunk  upon  the  ice  and  to  be  resting  there 


158  THEODORE   WINTHROP. 

weary  and  helpless,  on  one  side  a  wide  way  of  lurid  water 
on  the  other  half  a  mile  of  moving  desolation. 

Far  to  go,  and  nc  time  to  waste  ! 

«  Give  way,  Bill !     Give  way  !  " 

"Ay,  ay!" 

Both  spoke  in  low  tones,  hardly  louder  than  the  whisper 
of  the  ice  around  them. 

By  this  time  hundreds  from  the  Foundry  and  the  village 
were  swarming  upon  the  wharf  and  the  steamboat. 

"  A  hundred  tar-barrels  would  n't  git  up  my  steam  in  time 
to  do  any  good,"  says  Cap'n  Ambuster.  "  If  them  two  in 
my  skiff  don't  overhaul  the  man,  he  's  gon  e." 

"  You  're  sure  it 's  a  man  ?  "  says  Smith  Wheelwright. 

"  Take  a  squint  through  my  glass.  I  'm  dreffully  afeard 
it 's  a  gal ;  but  suthin'  's  got  into  my  eye,  so  I  can't  see." 

Suthin'  had  got  into  the  old  fellow's  eye,  —  suthin'  saline 
and  acrid,  —  namely,  a  tear. 

"  It 's  a  woman,"  says  Wheelwright,  —  and  suthin'  of  the 
same  kind  blinded  him  also. 

Almost  sunset  now.  But  the  air  was  suddenly  filled  with 
perplexing  snow-dust  from  a  heavy  squall.  A  white  cur- 
tain dropped  between  the  anxious  watchers  on  the  wharf 
and  the  boatmen. 

The  same  white  curtain  hid  the  dark  floating  object  from 
its  pursuers.  There  was  nothing  in  sight  to  steer  by  now. 

Wade  steered  by  his  last  glimpse,  —  by  the  current, — 
by  the  rush  of  the  roaring  wind,  —  by  instinct. 

How  merciful  that  in  such  a  moment  a  man  is  spared  the 
agony  of  thought !  His  agony  goes  into  action,  intense  as 
life. 

It  was  bitterly  cold.  A  swash  of  ice-water  filled  the 
bottom  of  the  skiff.  She  was  low  enough  down  without 
that.  They  could  not  stop  to  bail,  and  the  miniatuie  ice- 
bergs they  passed  began  to  look  significantly  over  the  gun- 
wale. Which  would  come  to  the  point  of  foundering  first, 
the  boat  or  the  little  floe  it  aimed  for  ? 


LOVE  AND  SKATES.  159 

Bitterly  cold!  The  snow  hardly  melted  upon  Tarbox's 
bare  hands.  His  fingers  stiffened  to  the  oars;  but  there 
was  life  in  them  still,  and  still  he  did  his  work,  and  never 
turned  to  see  how  the  steersman  was  doing  his. 

A  flight  of  crows  came  sailing  with  the  snow-squall. 
They  alighted  all  about  on  the  hummocks,  and  curiously 
watched  the  two  men  battling  to  save  life.  One  block 
impish  bird,  more  malignant  or  more  sympathetic  tlian  Jj 
fellows,  ventured  to  poise  on  the  skiffs  stern. 

Bill  hissed  off  his  third  passenger.  The  crow  rose  on  its 
toes,  let  the  boat  slide  away  from  under  him,  and  followed 
croaking  dismal  good  wishes. 

The  last  sunbeams  were  now  cutting  in  everywhere. 
The  thick* snow-flurry  was  like  a  luminous  cloud.  Sud- 
denly it  drew  aside. 

The  industrious  skiff  had  steered  so  well  and  made  such 
headway,  that  there,  a  hundred  yards  away,  safe  still,  not 
gone,  thank  God !  was  the  woman  they  sought. 

A  dusky  mass  flung  together  on  a  waning  rood  of  ice,  — 
Wade  could  see  nothing  more. 

Weary  or  benumbed,  or  sick  with  pure  forlornness  and 
despair,  she  had  drooped  down  and  showed  no  sign  of  life. 

The  great  wind  shook  the  river.  Her  waning  rood  of 
ice  narrowed,  foot  by  foot,  like  an  unthrifty  man's  heritage. 
Inch  by  inch  its  edges  wore  away,  until  the  little  space  that 
half  sustained  the  dark  heap  was  no  bigger  than  a  coffin-lid. 

Help,  now  !  —  now,  men,  if  you  are  to  save  !  Thrust, 
Richard  Wade,  with  your  boat-hook !  Pull,  Bill,  till  your 
oars  snap !  Out  with  your  last  frenzies  of  vigor !  For  the 
little  raft  of  ice,  even  that  has  crumbled  beneath  its  burden, 
and  she  sinks,  —  sinks,  with  succor  close  at  hand  ! 

Sinks  !     No,  —  she  rises  and  floats  again. 

She  clasps  something  that  holds  her  head  just  above 
water.  But  the  unmannerly  ice  has  buffeted  her  hat  ofH 
The  fragments  toss  it  about,  —  that  pretty  Amazonian  hat, 


160  THEODORE  WINTHROP. 

witii  its  alert  feather,  all  drooping  and  draggled.  Her  fair 
hair  and  pure  forehead  are  uncovered  for  an  astonished  sun- 
beam to  alight  upon. 

"  It  is  my  love,  my  life,  Bill !     Give  way,  once  more  !  " 

"  Way  enough  !  Steady !  Sit  where  you  are,  Bill,  and 
trim  boat,  while  I  lift  her  out.  We  cannot  risk  capsizing." 

He  raised  her  carefully,  tenderly,  with  his  strong  arms. 

A  bit  of  wood  had  buoyed  her  up  for  that  last  moment. 
ft  was  a  broken  oar  with  a  deep  fresh  gash  in  it.  Wade 
knew  his  mark,  —  the  cut  of  his  own  skate-iron.  This 
busy  oar  was  still  resolved  to  play  its  part  in  the  drama. 

The  round  little  skiff  just  bore  the  third  person  without 
sinking. 

Wade  laid  Mary  Darner  against  the  thwart.  '  She  would 
not  let  go  her  buoy.  He  unclasped  her  stiffened  hands. 
This  friendly  touch  found  its  way  to  her  heart.  She  opened 
her  eyes  and  knew  him. 

"  The  ice  shall  not  carry  off  her  hat  to  frighten  some 
mother,  down  stream,"  says  Bill  Tarbox,  catching  it. 

All  these  proceedings  Cap'n  Ambuster's  spy-glass  an 
nounced  to  Dunderbunk. 

"  They  're  h'istin'  her  up.  They  've  slumped  her  into  the 
skiff.  They  're  puttin'  for  shore.  Hooray  !  " 

Pity  a  spy-glass  cannot  shoot  cheers  a  mile  and  a  half! 

Perry  Purtett  instantly  led  a  stampede  of  half  Dunder- 
bunk along  the  railroad-track  to  learn  who  it  was  and  all 
about  it. 

All  about  it  was  that  Miss  Darner  was  safe,  and  not 
dangerously  frozen,  —  and  that  Wade  and  Tarbox  had 
carried  her  up  the  hill  to  her  mother  at  Peter  Skerrett's. 

Missing  the  heroes  in  chief,  Dunderbunk  made  a  hero  ot 
Cap'n  Ambuster's  skiff.  It  was  transported  back  on  the 
shoulders  of  the  crowd  in  triumphal  procession.  Perry 
Purtett  carried  round  the  hat  for  a  contribution  to  new 
paint  it,  new  rib  it,  new  gunwale  it,  give  it  new  sculls  and  a 


LOVE  AND  SKATES.  161 

new  boat-hook,  —  indeed  to  make  a  new  vessel  of  the  brave 
little  bowl. 

« I  'm  afeard,"  says  Cap'n  Ambuster,  "  that,  when  I  git  a 
harnsome  new  skiff,  I  shall  want  a  harasome  new  steam- 
boat, and  then  the  boat  will  go  to  cruisin'  round  for  a 
harnsome  new  Cap'n." 

And  now  for  the  end  of  this  story. 

Healthy  love-stories  always  end  in  happy  marriages. 

So  ends  this  story,  begun  as  to  its  love  portion  by  the 
little  romance  of  a  tumble,  and  continued  by  the  bigger 
romance  of  a  rescue. 

Of  course  there  were  incidents  enough  to  fill  a  volume, 
obstacles  enough  to  fill  a  volume,  and  development  of  char- 
acter enough  to  fill  a  tome  thick  as  "  Webster's  Unabridged," 
before  the  happy  end  of  the  beginning  of  the  Wade-Darner 
joint  history. 

But  we  can  safely  take  for  granted  that,  the  lover  being 
true  and  manly,  and  the  lady  true  and  womanly,  and  both 
possessed  of  the  high  moral  qualities  necessary  to  artistic 
skating,  they  will  go  on  understanding  each  other  better, 
until  they  are  as  one  as  two  can  be. 

Masculine  reader,  attend  to  the  moral  of  this  tale  : — 

Skate  well,  be  a  hero,  bravely  deserve  the  fair,  prove 
your  deserts  by  your  deeds,  find  your  "  perfect  woman  nobly 
planned  to  warm,  to  comfort,  and  command,"  catch  her 
when  found,  and  you  are  Blest. 

Reader  of  the  gentler  sex,  likewise  attend: — 

All  the  essential  blessings  of  life  accompany  a  true  heart 
and  a  good  complexion.  Skate  vigorously  ;  then  your  heart 
will  beat  true,  your  cheeks  will  bloom,  your  appointed  lover 
will  see  your  beautiful  soul  shining  through  your  beautiful 
face,  he  will  tell  you  so,  and  after  sufficient  circumlocution 
he  will  Pop,  you  will  accept,  and  your  lives  will  glide 
sweetly  as  skating  on  virgin  ice  to  silver  music. 
11 


THE  BLESSED  DAMOZEL. 

BY  D.   G.  ROSSETTI. 

FTHHE  blessed  Damozel  leaned  out 
I       From  the  gold  bar  of  Heaven  ; 

Her  eyes  knew  more  of  rest  and  shade 
Than  waters  stilled  at  even ; 

She  had  three  lilies  in  her  hand, 
And  the  stars  in  her  hair  were  seven. 

Her  robe,  ungirt  from  clasp  to  hem. 

No  wrought  flowers  did  adorn, 
But  a  white  rose  of  Mary's  gift, 

For  service  meetly  worn ; 
And  her  hair  lying  down  her  back 

Was  yellow  like  ripe  corn. 

Her  seemed  she  scarce  had  been  ft  day 

One  of  God's  choristers ; 
The  wonder  was  not  yet  quite  gone 

From  that  still  look  of  hers ; 
Albeit,  to  them  she  left,  her  day 

Had  counted  as  ten  years. 

(To  one,  it  is  ten  years  of  years, 

Yet  now,  and  in  this  place, 

Surely  she  leaned  o'er  me  —  her  hair 
Fell  all  about  my  face 

Nothing:  the  autumn  fall  of  leaves. 
The  whole  year  sets  apace.) 


THE  BLESSED  DAMOZEL.  163 

It  was  the  rampart  of  God's  house 

That  she  was  standing  on ; 
By  God  built  over  the  sheer  depth 

The  which  is  Space  begun ; 
So  high,  that  looking  downward  thence 

She  scarce  could  see  the  sun. 

It  lies  in  Heaven,  across  the  flood 

Of  ether,  as  a  bridge. 
Beneath,  the  tides  of  day  and  night 

With  flame  and  blackness  ridge 
The  void,  as  low  as  where  this  earth 

Spins  like  a  fretful  midge. 

• 

She  scarcely  heard  her  sweet  new  friends : 

Playing  at  holy  games, 
Softly  they  spake  among  themselves 

Their  virginal  chaste  names  ; 
And  the  souls,  mounting  up  to  God, 

Went  by  her  like  thin  flames. 

And  still  she  bowed  above  the  vast 

Waste  sea  of  worlds  that  swarm ; 
Until  her  bosom  must  have  made 

The  bar  she  leaned  on  warm, 
And  the  lilies  lay  as  if  asleep 

Along  her  bended  arm. 

From  the  fixed  place  of  Heaven,  she  saw 

Time  like  a  pulse  shake  fierce 
Through  all  the  worlds.    Her  gaze  still  strove 

Within  the  gulf  to  pierce 
Its  path  ;  and  now  she  spoke,  as  when 

The  stars  sung  in  their  spheres. 


164  D.  G.  ROSSETTI. 

The  sun  was  gone  now.     The  curled  ir  oon 

Was  like  a  little  feather 
Fluttering  far  down  the  gulf.    And  now 

She  spoke  through  the  still  weather. 
Her  voice  was  like  the  voice  the  stars 

Had  when  they  sung  together. 

"  I  wish  that  he  were  come  to  me, 

For  he  will  come,"  she  said. 
"  Have  I  not  prayed  in  Heaven  ?  —  on  earth, 

Lord,  Lord,  has  he  not  prayed  ? 
Are  not  two  prayers  a  perfect  strength? 

And  shall  I  feel  afraid  ? 
« 

"  When  round  his  head  the  aureole  clings, 

And  he  is  clothed  in  white, 
I  '11  take  his  hand  and  go  with  him 

To  the  deep  wells  of  light, 
And  we  will  step  down  as  to  a  stream, 

And  bathe  there  in  God's  sight. 

"  We  two  will  stand  beside  that  shrine, 

Occult,  withheld,  untrod, 
Whose  lamps  are  stirred  continually 

With  prayers  sent  up  to  God ; 
And  see  our  old  prayers,  granted,  melt 

Each  like  a  little  cloud. 

"  We  two  will  lie  i'  the  shadow  of 

That  living  mystic  tree, 
Within  whose  secret  growth  the  Dove 

Is  sometimes  felt  to  be,    • 
While  every  leaf  that  His  plumes  touch 

Saith  His  Name  audibly. 


THE  BLESSED  DAMOZEL.  165 

u  And  I  myself  will  teach  to  him, 

I  myself,  lying  so, 
The  songs  I  sing  here ;  which  his  voice 

Shall  pause  in,  hushed  and  slow, 
And  find  some  knowledge  at  each  pause, 

Or  some  new  thing  to  know." 

(Ah  sweet !  Just  now,  in  that  bird's  song, 

Strove  not  her  accents  there 
Fain  to  be  hearkened  ?    When  those  bell* 

Possessed  the  midday  air, 
"Was  she  not  stepping  to  my  side 

Down  all  the  trembling  stair  ?  ) 

» 

**  We  two,"  she  said,  "  will  seek  the  groves 

Where  the  Lady  Mary  is, 
With  her  five  handmaidens,  whose  names 

Are  five  sweet  symphonies, 
Cecily,  Gertrude,  Magdalen, 

Margaret,  and  Rosalys. 

"  Circlewise  sit  they,  with  bound  locks 

And  foreheads  garlanded ; 
Into  the  fine  cloth  white  like  flame 

Weaving  the  golden  thread, 
To  fashion  the  birth-robes  for  them 

Who  are  just  born,  being  dead. 

"  He  shall  tear,  haply,  and  be  dumb ; 

Then  I  will  lay  my  cheek 
To  his,  and  tell  about  our  love, 

Not  once  abashed  or  weak ; 
And  the  dear  Mother  will  approve 

My  pride,  and  let  me  speak. 


166  D.  G.  ROSSETTI. 

"  Herself  shall  bring  us,  hand  in  hand, 
To  Him  round  whom  all  souls 

Kneel,  the  unnumbered  ransomed  heada 
Bowed  with  their  aureoles  : 

And  angels  meeting  us  shall  sing 
To  their  citherns  and  citoles. 

"There  will  I  ask  of  Christ  the  Lord 
Thus  much  for  him  and  me :  — 

Only  to  live  as  once  on  earth 
At  peace,  —  only  to  be, 

As  then  awhile,  forever  now 
Together,  I  and  he." 

She  gazed,  and  listened,  and  then  said, 
Less  sad  of  speech  than  mild, 

"  All  this  is  when  he  comes."     She  ceased. 
The  light  thrilled  past  her, 

Filled  with  angels  in  strong  level  lapse. 
Her  eyes  prayed,  and  she  smiled. 

(I  saw  her  smile.)     But  soon  their  flight 
Was  vague  in  distant  spheres  ; 

And  then  she  laid  her  arms  along 
The  golden  barriers, 

And  laid  her  face  between  her  hands, 
And  wept.    (I  heard  her  tears.) 


THE  HAPPY  LIFE  OF  A  PARISH  PRIEST  IN 
SWEDEN. 

BY  JEAN  PAUL. 

JTVILL  begin  with  winter,  and  I  will  suppose  it  to  be 
Christmas.  The  priest,  whom  we  shall  imagine  to  be  a 
German,  and  summoned  from  the  southern  climate  of  Ger- 
many upon  presentation  to  the  church  of  a  Swedish  hamlet 
lying  in  a  high  polar  latitude,  rises  in  cheerfulness  about 
seven  o'clock  in  the  morning;  and  till  half  past  nine  he 
burns  his  lamp.  At  nine  o'clock  the  stars  are  still  shining, 
and  the  unclouded  moon  even  yet  longer.  This  prolonga- 
tion of  starlight  into  the  forenoon  is  to  him  delightful ;  for 
he  is  a  German,  and  has  a  sense  of  something  marvellous  in 
a  starry  forenoon.  Methinks  I  behold  the  priest  and  his 
flock  moving  towards  the  church  with  lanterns :  the  lights 
dispersed  amongst  the  crowd  connect  the  congregation  into 
the  appearance  of  some  domestic  group  or  larger  household, 
and  carry  the  priest  back  to  his  childish  years  during  the 
winter  season  and  Christmas  matins,  when  every  hand  bore 
its  candle.  Arrived  at  the  pulpit,  he  declares  to  his  audi- 
ence the  plain  truth,  word  for  word,  as  it  stands  in  the 
Gospel :  in  the  presence  of  God,  all  intellectual  pretension? 
are  called  upon  to  be  silent ;  the  very  reason  ceases  to  be 
reasonable  ;  nor  is  anything  reasonable  in  the  sight  of  God 

but  a  sincere  and  upright  heart. 

• 

Just  as  he  and  his  flock  are  issuing  from  the  church,  the 


168  JEAN  PAUL. 

bright  Christmas  sun  ascends  above  the  horizon,  and  shoots 
his  beams  upon  their  faces.  The  old  men,  who  are  numer- 
ous in  Sweden,  are  all  tinged  with  the  colors  of  youth  by 
the  rosy  morning-lustre ;  and  the  priest,  as  he  looks  away 
from  them  to  mother  earth  lying  in  the  sleep  of  winter,  and 
to  the  churchyard,  where  the  flowers  and  the  men  are  all 
in  their  graves  together,  might  secretly  exclaim  with  the 
poet :  "  Upon  the  dead  mother,  in  peace  and  utter  gloom, 
are  reposing  the  dead  children.  After  a  time,  uprises  the 
everlasting  sun  ;  and  the  mother  starts  up  at  the  summons 
of  the  heavenly  dawn  with  a  resurrection  of  her  ancient 
gloom :  —  And  her  children  ?  —  Yes :  but  they  must  wait 
awhile." 

At  home  he  is  awaited  by  a  warm  study,  and  a  "  long- 
levelled  rule  "  of  sunlight  upon  the  book-clad  wall. 

The  afternoon  he  spends  delightfully ;  for,  having  before 
him  such  a  perfect  flower-stand  of  pleasures,  he  scarcely 
knows  where  he  should  settle.  Supposing  it  to  be  Christ- 
mas day,  he  preaches  again  :  he  preaches  on  a  subject  which 
calls  up  images  of  the  beauteous  Eastern  land,  or  of  eter- 
nity. By  this  time,  twilight  and  gloom  prevail  through  the 
church :  only  a  couple  of  wax  lights  upon  the  altar  throw 
wondrous  and  mighty  shadows  through  the  aisles :  the  angel 
that  hangs  down  from  the  roof  above  the  baptismal  font  is 
awoke  into  a  solemn  life  by  the  shadows  and  the  rays 
and  seems  almost  in  the  act  of  ascension  :  through  the 
windows,  the  stars  or  the  moon  are  beginning  to  peer: 
aloft,  in  the  pulpit,  which  is  now  hid  in  gloom,  the  priest  is 
inflamed  and  possessed  by  the  sacred  burden  of  glad  tidings 
which  he  is  announcing:  he  is  lost  and  insensible  to  all 
besides;  and  from  amidst  the  darkness  which  surrounds 
him  he  pours  down  his  thunders,  with  tears  and  agitation, 
reasoning  of  future  worlds,  and  of  the  heaven  of  heavens, 
and 'whatsoever  else  can  most  powerfully  shake  the  heart 
and  the  affections. 


HAPPY  LIFE  OF  A  PARISH  PRIEST  IN  SWEDEN.       169 

Descending  from  his  pulpit  in  these  holy  fervors,  he  now, 
perhaps,  takes  a  walk :  it  is  about  four  o'clock :  and  he  walks 
beneath  a  sky  lit  up  by  the  shifting  northern  lights,  that  to 
his  eye  appear  but  an  Aurora  striking  upwards  from  the 
eternal  morning  of  the  south,  or  as  a  forest  composed  of 
saintly  thickets,  like  the  fiery  bushes  of  Moses,  that  are 
round  the  throne  of  God. 

Thus,  if  it  be  the  afternoon  of  Christmas  day :  but  if  it 
be  any  other  afternoon,  visitors,  perhaps,  come  and  bring 
their  well-bred  grown-up  daughters;  like  the  fashionable 
world  in  London,  he  dines  at  sunset ;  that  is  to  say,  like  the 
Mw-fashionable  world  of  London,  he  dines  at  two  o'clock ; 
and  he  drinks  coffee  by  moonlight ;  and  the  parsonage-house 
becomes  an%  en  chanted  palace  of  pleasure,  gleaming  with 
twilight,  starlight,  and  moonlight.  Or,  perhaps,  he  goes 
over  to  the  schoolmaster,  who  is  teaching  his  afternoon 
school :  there,  by  the  candlelight,  he  gathers  round  his  knees 
all  the  scholars,  as  if —  being  the  children  of  his  spiritual 
children  —  they  must  therefore  be  his  own  grandchildren ; 
and  with  delightful  words  he  wins  their  attention,  and  pours 
knowledge  into  their  docile  hearts. 

All  these  pleasures  failing,  he  may  pace  up  and  down  in 
his  library,  already,  by  three  o'clock,  gloomy  with  twilight, 
but  fitfully  onlivened  by  a  glowing  fire,  and  steadily  by  the 
bright  moonlight ;  and  he  needs  do  no  more  than  taste  at 
every  turn  of  his  walk  a  little  orange  marmalade,  to  call 
up  images  of  beautiful  Italy,  and  its  gardens  and  orange 
groves,  before  all  his  five  senses,  and,  as  it  were,  to  the  very 
tip  of  his  tongue.  Looking  at  the  moon,  he  will  not  fail  to 
recollect  that  the  very  same  silver  disk  hangs  at  the  very 
eame  moment  between  the  branches  of  the  laurels  in  Italy. 
It  will  delight  him  to  consider  that  the  JEolian  harp  and 
the  lark,  and  indeed  music  of  all  kinds,  and  the  stars  and 
children,  are  just  the  same  in  hot  climates  and  in  cold. 
And  when  the  post-boy,  that  rides  in  with  news  from  Italy, 


170  JEAN  PAUL. 

winds  Ms  horn  through  the  hamlet,  and  with  a  few  simple 
notes  raises  up  on  the  frozen  window  of  his  study  a  vision 
of  flowery  realms  ;  and  when  he  plays  with  treasured  leaves 
of  roses  and  of  lilies  from  some  departed  summer,  or  with 
plumes  of  a  bird  of  Paradise,  the  memorial  of  some  distant 
friend  ;  when  further,  his  heart  is  moved  by  the  magnificent 
sounds  of  Lady-day,  Salad-season,  Cherry-time,  Trinity- 
Sundays,  the  rose  of  June,  &c.,  how  can  he  fail  to  forget 
that  he  is  in  Sweden  by  the  time  that  his  lamp  is  brought 
in  ?  and  then,  indeed,  he  will  be  somewhat  disconcerted  to 
recognize  his  study  in  what  had  now  shaped  itself  to  his 
fancy  as  a  room  in  some  foreign  land.  However,  if  he 
would  pursue  this  airy  creation,  he  need  but  light  at  his 
lamp  a  wax-candle-end,  to  gain  a  glimpse  through  the 
whole  evening  into  that  world  of  fashion  and  splendor  from 
which  he  purchased  the  said  wax-candle-end.  For  I 
should  suppose,  that  at  the  court  of  Stockholm,  as  else- 
where, there  must  be  candle-ends  to  be  bought  of  the 
state-footmen. 

But  now,  after  the  lapse  of  half  a  year,  all  at  once  there 
strikes  upon  his  heart  something  more  beautiful  than  Italy, 
where  the  sun  sets  so  much  earlier  in  summer-time  than  it 
does  at  our  Swedish  hamlet :  and  what  is  that  ?  It  is  the 
longest  day,  with  the  rich  freight  that  it  carries  in  its  bosom, 
and  leading  by  the  hand  the  early  dawn,  blushing  with  rosy 
light  and  melodious  with  the  carolling  of  larks  at  one 
o'clock  in  the  morning.  Before  two,  that  is,  at  sunrise, 
the  elegant  party  that  we  mentioned  last  winter  arrive  in 
gay  clothing  at  the  parsonage;  for  they  are  bound  on  a 
little  excursion  of  pleasure  in  company  with  the  priest.  At 
two  o'clock  they  are  in  motion  ;  at  which  time  all  the  flowers 
are  glittering,  and  the  forests  are  gleaming  with  the  mighty 
light.  The  warm  sun  threatens  them  with  no  storm  nor 
thunder-showers  ;  for  both  are  rare  in  Sweden.  The  priest, 
in  common  with  the  rest  of  the  company,  is  attired  in  the 


HAPPY  LIFE  OF  A  PARISH  PRIEST  IN  SWEDEN.       171 

costume  of  Sweden ;  he  wears  his  short  jacket  with  a  broad 
scarf,  his  short  cloak  above  that,  his  round  hat  with  floating 
plumes,  and  shoes  tied  with  bright  ribbons :  like  the  rest 
of  the  men,  he  resembles  a  Spanish  knight,  or  a  prove^al, 
or  other  man  of  the  South ;  more  especially  when  he  and 
his  gay  company  are  seen  flying  through  the  lofty  foliage 
luxuriant  with  blossom,  that  within  so  short  a  period  of 
weeks  has  shot  forth  from  the  garden-plots  and  the  naked 
boughs. 

That  a  longest  day  like  this,  bearing  such  a  cornucopia 
of  sunshine,  of  cloudless  ether,  of  buds  and  bells,  of  blossoms 
and  of  leisure,  should  pass  away  more  rapidly  than  the 
shortest,  is  not  difficult  to  suppose.  As  early  as  eight 
o'clock  in  the,evening  the  party  breaks  up  ;  the  sun  is  now 
burning  more  gently  over  the  half-closed,  sleepy  flowers : 
about  nine  he  lias  mitigated  his  rays,  and  is  beheld  bathing, 
as  it  were,  naked  in  the  blue  depths  of  heaven  :  about  ten, 
at  which  hour  the  company  reassemble  at  the  parsonage, 
the  priest  is  deeply  moved,  for  throughout  the  hamlet, 
though  the  tepid  sun,  now  sunk  to  the  horizon,  is  still  shed- 
ding a  sullen  glow  upon  the  cottages  and  the  window-panes, 
everything  reposes  in  profoundest  silence  and  sleep :  the 
birds  even  are  all  slumbering  in  the  golden  summits  of  the 
woods :  and  at  last,  the  solitary  sun  himself  sets,  like  a  moon, 
amidst  the  universal  quiet  of  nature.  To  our  priest,  walk- 
ing in  his  romantic  dress,  it  seems  as  though  rosy-colored 
realms  were  laid  open,  in  which  fairies  and  spirits  range ; 
and  he  would  scarcely  feel  an  emotion  of  wonder,  if,  in  this 
hour  of  golden  vision,  his  brother,  who  ran  away  in  child- 
hood, should  suddenly  present  himself  as  one  alighting  from 
some  blooming  heaven  of  enchantment. 

The  priest  will  not  allow  his  company  to  depart:  he 
detains  them  in  the  parsonage  garden,  —  where,  says  he, 
every  one  that  chooses  may  slumber  away  in  beautiful 
bowers  the  brief,  warm  hours  until  the  reappearance  of 


172  JEAN  PAUL. 

the  sun.  This  proposal  is  generally  adopted ;  and  the  gar- 
den is  occupied :  many  a  lovely  pair  are  making  believe  to 
sleep,  but,  in  fact,  are  holding  each  other  by  the  hand. 
The  happy  priest  walks  up  and  down  through  the  parterres. 
Coolness  comes,  and  a  few  stars.  His  nigl it- violets  and 
gillyflowers  open  and  breathe  out  their  powerful  odors.  To 
the  north,  from  the  eternal  morning  of  the  pole,  exhales  as 
it  were  a  golden  dawn.  The  priest  thinks  of  the  village  of 
his  childhood  far  away  in  Germany ;  he  thinks  of  the  life  of 
man,  his  hopes,  and  his  aspirations :  and  he  is  calm  and  at 
peace  with  himself.  Then  all  at  once  starts  up  the  morning 
sun  in  his  freshness.  Some  there  are  in  the  garden  who 
would  fain  confound  it  with  the  evening  sun,  and  close  their 
eyes  again:  but  the  larks  betray  all,  and  awaken  every 
sleeper  from  bower  to  bower. 

Then  again  begin  pleasure  and  morning  in  their  pomp  of 
radiance ;  and  almost  I  could  persuade  myself  to  delineate 
the  course  of  this  day  also,  though  it  differs  from  its  pre- 
decessor hard]y  by  so  much  as  the  leaf  of  a  rose-bud. 


THE   SONG   OF  THE   SHIRT. 

BY  THOMAS   HOOD. 

WITH  fingers  weary  and  worn, 
With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags, 
Plying  her  needle  and  thread,  — 

Stitch!  stitch!  stitch! 
In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt ; 

And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch 
She  sang  the  "  Song  of  the  Shirt ! " 

"Work!  work!  work! 

While  the  cock  is  crowing  aloof ! 
And  work  —  work  —  work 

Till  the  stars  shine  through  the  roof ! 
It 's,  O,  to  be  a  slave 

Along  with  the  barbarous  Turk, 
Where  woman  has  never  a  soul  to  save, 

If  this  is  Christian  work ! 

"  Work  —  work  —  work ! 

.  Till  the  brain  begins  to  swim ! 
Work  —  work  —  work 

Till  the  eyes  are  heavy  and  dim ! 
Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band, 

Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam,  — 
Till  over  the  buttons  I  fall  asleep, 

And  sew  them  on  in  a  dream ! 


174  THOMAS  HOOD. 

"  O  men  with  sisters  dear ! 

O  men  with  mothers  and  wives ! 
It  is  not  linen  you  're  wearing  out, 

But  human  creatures'  lives ! 
Stitch  —  stitch  —  stitch, 

Tn  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt,  — 
Sewing  at  once,  with  a  double  thread, 

A  shroud  as  well  as  a  shirt ! 

"  But  why  do  I  talk  of  death,  — 

That  phantom  of  grisly  bone  ? 
I  hardly  fear  his  terrible  shape, 

It  seems  so  like  my  own,  — 

It  seems  so  like  my  own 

Because  of  the  fasts  I  keep ; 
0  God !  that  bread  should  be  so  dear, 

And  flesh  and  blood  so  cheap ! 

"  "Work  —  work  —  work ! 

My  labor  never  flags  ; 
And  what  are  its  wages  ?     A  bed  of  straw, 

A  crust  of  bread  —  and  rags, 
That  shattered  roof — ^and  this  naked  floor  — 

A  table  —  a  broken  chair  — 
And  a  wall  so  blank  my  shadow  I  thank 

For  sometimes  falling  there  ! 

"  Work  —  work  —  work  ! 

From  weary  chime  to  chime  ! 
Work  —  work  —  work 

As  prisoners  work  for  crime ! 
Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam, 

Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band,  — 
Till  the  heart  is  sick  and  the  brain  benumbed, 

As  well  as  the  weary  hand. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SHIRT.  175 

"  "Work  —  work  —  work  ! 

In  the  dull  December  light ! 
And  work  —  work  —  work 

When  the  weather  is  warm  and  bright ! 
While  underneath  the  eaves 

The  brooding  swallows  cling, 
As  if  to  show  me  their  sunny  backs, 

And  twit  me  with  the  Spring. 

"  O  but  to  breathe  the  breath 

Of  the  cowslip  and  primrose  sweet,  — 
With  the  sky  above  my  head, 

And  the  grass  beneath  my  feet ! 
For«only  one  short  hour 

To  feel  as  I  used  to  feel, 
Before  I  knew  the  woes  of  want 

And  the  walk  that  costs  a  meal ! 

"  O  but  for  one  short  hour,  — 

A  respite,  however  brief  ! 
No  blessed  leisure  for  love  or  hope, 

But  only  time  for  grief !  - 
A  little  weeping  would  ease  my  heart ; 

But  in  their  briny  bed 
My  tears  must  stop,  for  every  drop 

Hinders  needle  and  thread !  " 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags, 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread,  — 
Stitch!  stitch!  stitch! 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt ; 
And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch  — 
Would  that  its  tone  could  reach  the  rich !  — 

She  sang  this  "  Song  of  the  Shirt !  " 


JOHN    FLAX MAN 


BY  SAMUEL   SMILES. 


JOHN  FLAXMAN  was  a  true  genius,  —  one  of  the 
greatest  artists  England  has  yet  produced.  He  was  be- 
sides a  person  of  beautiful  character,  his  life  furnishing  many 
salutary  lessons  for  men  of  all  ranks.  Flaxman  was  the  son 
of  a  humble  seller  of  plaster-casts  in  New  Street,  Covent 
Garden;  and  when  a  child,  he  was  so  constant  an  inva- 
lid that  it  was  his  custom  to  sit  behind  the  shop  counter 
propped  by  pillows,  amusing  himself  with  drawing  and  read- 
ing. A  benevolent  clergyman,  named  Matthews,  one  day 
calling  at  the  shop,  found  the  boy  trying  to  read  a  book, 
and  on  inquiring  what  it  was,  found  it  was  a  Cornelius  Nepos, 
which  his  father  had  picked  up  for  a  few  pence  at  a  bookstall. 
The  gentleman,  after  some  conversation  with  the  boy,  said 
that  was  not  the  proper  book  for  him  to  read,  but  that  he 
would  bring  him  a  right  one  on  the  morrow ;  and  the  kind 
man  was  as  good  as  his  word.  The  Rev.  Mr.  Matthews 
used  afterwards  to  say,  that  from  that  casual  interview  with 
the  cripple  little  invalid  behind  the  plaster-cast  seller's  shop- 
counter,  began  an  acquaintance  which  ripened  into  one  of 
the  best  friendships  of  his  life.  He  brought  several  books 
to  the  boy,  amongst  which  were  Homer  and  "  Don  Quix- 
ote," in  both  of  which  Flaxman  then  and  ever  after  took 
immense  delight.  His  mind  was  soon  full  of  the  heroism 
which  breathed  through  the  pages  of  the  former  work,  and, 


JOHN  FLAXMAN.  177 

with  the  stucco  Ajaxes  and  Achilleses  about  him,  looming 
along  the  shop  shelves,  the  ambition  thus  early  took  posses- 
sion of  him,  that  lie  too  would  design  and  embody  in  poetic 
forms  those  majestic  heroes..  His  black  chalk  was  at  once 
in  his  hand,  and  the  enthusiastic  boy  labored  in  a  divine 
despair  to  body  forth  in  visible  shapes  the  actions  of  the 
Greeks  and  Trojans. 

Like  all  youthful  efforts,  his  first  designs  were  crude. 
The  proud  father  one  day  showed  them  to  Roubilliac,  the 
sculptor,  who  turned  from  them  with  a  contemptuous 
"  Pshaw  ! "  But  the  boy  had  the  right  stuff  in  him  ;  he  had 
industry  and  patience ;  and  he  continued  to  labor  incessantly 
at  his  books  and  drawings.  He  then  tried  his  young  powers 
in  modelling  figures  in  plaster  of  Paris,  wax,  and  clay; 
some  of  these  early  works  are  still  preserved,  not  because 
of  their  merit,  but  because  they  are  curious  as  the  first 
healthy  efforts  of  patient  genius.  The  boy  was  long  before 
he  could  walk,  and  he  only  learned  to  do  so  by  hobbling 
along  upon  crutches.  Hence  he  could  not  accompany  his 
father  to  see  the  procession  at  the  coronation  of  George  HI., 
but  he  entreated  his  father  to  bring  him  back  one  of  the 
coronation  medals  which  were  to  be  distributed  amongst  the 
crowd.  The  pressure  was  too  great  to  enable  the  father  to 
obtain  one  in  the  scramble,  but,  not  to  disappoint  the  little 
invalid,  he  obtained  a  plated  button  bearing  the  stamp  of  a 
horse  and  jockey,  which  he  presented  to  his  son  as  the 
coronation  medal.  His  practice  at  this  time  was  to  make 
impressions  of  all  seals  and  medals  that  pleased  him  ;  and  it 
was  for  this  that  he  so  much  coveted  the  medal. 

His  physical  health  improving,  the  little  Flaxman  then 
threw  away  his  crutches.  The  kind  Mr.  Matthews  invited 
him  to  his  house,  where  his  wife  explained  Homer  and 
Milton  to  him.  They  helped  him  also  in  his  self-culture,  — 
giving  him  lessons  in  Greek  and  Latin,  the  study  of  which 
he  prosecuted  at  home.  When  under  Mrs.  Matthews,  he 
12 


178  SAMUEL  SMILES. 

also  attempted  with  his  bit  of  charcoal  to  embody  in  outline 
on  paper  such  passages  as  struck  his  fancy.  His  drawings 
could  not,  however,  have  been  very  extraordinary,  for  when 
he  showed  a  drawing  of  an  eye  which  he  had  made  to  Mor- 
timer, the  artist,  that  gentleman,  with  affected  surprise, 
exclaimed,  "  Is  it  an  oyster  ? "  The  sensitive  boy  was 
much  hurt,  and  for  a  time  took  care  to  avoid  showing  his 
drawings  to  artists,  who,  though  a  thin-skinned  race,  are 
sometimes  disposed  to  be  very  savage  in  their  criticisms  on 
others.  At  length,  by  dint  of  perseverance  and  study,  Ins 
drawing  improved  so  much  that  Mrs.  Matthews  obtained  a 
commission  for  him  from  a  lady,  to  draw  six  original  draw- 
ings in  black  chalk  of  subjects  in  Homer.  His  first  commis- 
sion !  A  great  event  that  in  the  boy's  life.  A  surgeon's 
first  fee,  a  lawyer's  first  retainer,  a  legislator's  first  speech, 
a  singer's  first  appearance  behind  the  footlights,  an  author's 
first  book,  are  not  any  of  them  mpre  full  of  interest  to  the 
individual  than  the  artist's  first  commission.  The  boy  duly 
executed  the  order,  and  was  both  well  praised  and  well  paid 
for  his  work. 

•  At  fifteen  Flaxman  entered  a  student  at  the  Royal 
Academy.  He  might  then  be  seen  principally  in  the  com- 
pany of  Blake  and  Stothard,  young  men  of  kindred  tastes 
and  genius,  gentle  and  amiable,  yet  ardent  in  their  love 
of  art.  Notwithstanding  his  retiring  disposition,  Flaxman 
soon  became  known  among  the  students,  and  great  things 
were  expected  of  him.  Nor  were  their  expectations  dis- 
appointed :  in  his  fifteenth  year  he  gained  the  silver  prize, 
and  next  year  he  became  a  candidate  for  the  gold  one. 
Everybody  prophesied  that  he  would  carry  off  the  medal, 
for  there  was  none  who  surpassed  him  in  ability  and  in- 
dustry. The  youth  did  his  best,  and  in  his  after-life 
honestly  affirmed  that  he  deserved  the  prize,  but  he  lost  it, 
and  the  gold  medal  was  adjudged  to  Engleheart,  who  was  not 
afterwards  heard  of.  This  failure  on  the  part  of  the  youth 


JOHN  FLAXMAN.  179 

was  really  of  service  to  him ;  for  defeats  do  not  long  cast 
down  the  resolute-hearted,  but  only  serve  to  call  forth  their 
real  powers.  "  Give  me  time,"  said  he  to  his  father,  "  and 
I  will  yet  produce  works  that  the  Academy  will  be  proud 
to  recognize."  He  redoubled  his  efforts,  spared  no  pains, 
designed  and  modelled  incessantly,  and  consequently  made 
steady  if  not  rapid  progress.  But  meanwhile  poverty 
threatened  his  father's  household:  the  plaster-cast  trade 
yielded  a  verj  bare  living;  and  young  Flaxman,  with 
resolute  self-denial?  curtailed  his  hours  of  study,  and  devoted 
himself  to  helping  his  father  in  the  humble  details  of  his 
business.  He  laid  aside  his  Homer  to  take  up  the  plaster- 
trowel.  He  was  willing  to  work  in  the  humblest  depart- 
ment of  tire  trade  so  that  his  father's  family  might  be 
supported,  and  the  wolf  kept  from  the  door.  To  this 
drudgery  of  his  art  he  served  a  long  apprenticeship ;  but  it 
did  him  good.  It  familiarized  him  with  steady  work,  and 
cultivated  in  Mm  the  spirit  of  patience.  The  discipline  may 
have  been  rough,  but  it  was  wholesome. 

Happily  young  Flaxman's  skill  in  design  had  reached  the 
knowledge  of  Mr.  Wedgwood,  who  sought  him  out  for  the 
purpose  of  employing  him  in  designing  improved  patterns 
of  china  and  earthenware  to  be  produced  at  his  manufactory. 
It  may  seem  a  humble  department  of  art  for  Flaxman  to 
have  labored  in ;  but  it  really  was  not  so.  An  artist  may 
be  laboring  truly  in  his  vocation  while  designing  even  so 
common  an  article  as  a  teapot  or  a  water-jug;  articles 
which  are  in  daily  i's-3  amongst  the  people,  and  are  befcre 
their  eyes  .at  every  meal,  may  be  made  the  vehicles  of 
art-education  to  all.  and  minister  to  their  highest  culture^ 
The  most  ambitious  artist  nmy  thus  confer  a  greater  prac- 
tical benefit  on  his  countrymen  than  by  executing  an  elab- 
orate work  which  he  may  seU  frr  thousands  of  pounds,  to 
be  placed  in  some  we»Hhv  map's  galle^r,  where  it  is  hid- 
den away  from  public  sight.  Before  "Wedgwood's  time  the 


180  SAMUEL  SMILES. 

designs  which  figured  upon  our  china  and  stoneware  were 
hideous  both  in  drawing  and  execution,  and  he  determined 
to  improve  both.  Finding  out  Flaxman,  he  said  to  him  • 
"  Well,  my  lad,  I  have  heard  that  you  are  a  good  draughts- 
man and  clever  designer.  I  'm  a  manufacturer  of  pots,  — 
name  Wedgwood.  Now,  I  want  you  to  design  some  models 
for  me,  —  nothing  fantastic,  but  simple,  tasteful,  and  correct 
in  drawing.  I  '11  pay  you  well.  You  don't  think  the  work 
beneath  you  ? "  "  By  no  means,  sir,"  replied  Flaxman, 
"  indeed,  the  work  is  quite  to  my  taste.  Give  me  a  few 
days,  —  call  again,  and  you  will  see  what  I  can  do." 
"  That 's  right,  —  work  away.  Mind,  I  am  in  want  of  them 
now.  They  are  for  pots  of  all  kinds,  —  teapots,  jugs,  tea- 
cups and  saucers.  But  especially  I  want  designs  for  a 
table-service.  Begin  with  that.  I  mean  to  supply  one  for 
the  royal  table.  Now,  think  of  that,  young  man.  What 
you  design  is  meant  for  the  eyes  of  royalty  ! "  "I  will  do 
my  best,  sir,  I  assure  you."  And  the  kind  gentleman 
bustled  out  of  the  shop  as  he  had  come  in. 

Flaxman  did  his  best.  By  the  time  that  Mr.  Wedgwood 
next  called  upon  him,  he  had  a  numerous  series  of  models 
prepared  for  various  pieces  of  earthenware.  They  con- 
sisted chiefly  of  small  groups  in  very  low  relief,  —  the 
subjects  taken  from  ancient  verse  and  history.  Many  of 
them  are  still  in  existence,  and  some  are  equal  in  beauty 
and  simplicity  to  his  after-designs  for  marble.  The  cele- 
brated Etruscan  vases,  many  of  which  were  to  be  found  in 
public  museums  and  in  the  cabinets  of  the  curious,  furnished 
him  with  the  best  examples  of  form,  and  these  he  embel- 
lished with  liis  own  elegant  devices.  "  Stuart's  Athens," 
then  recently  published,  also  furnished  him  with  specimens 
of  the  purest-shaped  Greek  utensils,  and  he  was  not  slow  to 
adopt  the  best  of  them,  and  work  them  up  into  new  and 
wondrous  shapes  of  elegance  and  beauty.  Flaxman  then 
saw  that  he  was  laboring  in  a  great  work,  —  no  less  than 


JOHN  FLAXMAN.  181 

the  promotion  of  popular  education ;  and  he  was  proud  in 
after-life  to  allude  to  these  his  early  labors,  by  which  he 
was  enabled  at  the  same  time  to  cultivate  his  love  of  the 
beautiful,  to  diffuse  a  taste  for  art  among  the  people,  and  to 
replenish  his  own  purse,  while  he  promoted  the  prosperity 
of  his  friend  and  benefactor. 

Engaged  in  such  labors  as  these,  for  several  years  Flax- 
man  executed  but  few  works  of  art,  and  then  at  rare 
intervals.  He  lived  a  quiet,  secluded,  and  simple  life, 
working  during  the  day,  and  sketching  and  reading  in  the 
evenings.  He  was  so  poor  that  he  had  as  yet  been  only 
able  to  find  plaster  of  Paris  for  his  works,  —  marble  was 
too  dear  a  material  for  him.  He  had  hitherto  executed 
only  one  statue  in  the  latter  material,  and  that  was  a  com- 
mission. 

At  length,  in  the  year  1782,  when  twenty-seven  years  of 
age,  he  quitted  his  father's  roof  and  rented  a  small  house 
and  studio  in  TVardour  Street,  Soho ;  and  what  was  more, 
he  married,  —  Ann  Denman  was  the  name  of  his  wife, 
and  a  cheery,  bright-souled,  noble  woman  she  was.  He 
believed  that  in  marrying  her  he  should  be  able  to  work 
with  an  intenser  spirit ;  for,  like  him,  she  had  a  taste  for 
poetry  and  art,  and  besides  was  an  enthusiastic  admirer  of 
her  husband's  genius.  Yet  when  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  — 
himself  a  bachelor  —  met  Flaxman  shortly  after  his  mar- 
riage, he  said  to  him,  "  So,  Flaxman,  I  am  told  you  are 
married ;  if  so,  sir,  I  tell  you  you  are  ruined  for  an  artist." 
Flaxman  went  straight  home,  sat  down  beside  his  wife,  took 
her  hand  in  his,  and  said,  "  Ann,  I  am  ruined  for  an  artist" 
"  How  so,  John  ?  How  has  it  happened  ?  and  who  has 
done  it  ?  "  "  It  happened,"  he  replied,  "  in  the  church,  and 
Ann  Denman  has  done  it"  He  then  told  her  of  Sit 
Joshua's  remark,  —  whose  opinion  was  well  known,  and  had 
often  been  expressed,  that  if  students  would  excel  they  must 
bring  the  whole  powers  of  their  mind  to  bear  upon  their  art, 


182  SAMUEL  SMILES. 

from  the  moment  they  rise  until  they  go  to  bed ;  and  u'so, 
that  no  man  could  be  a  great  artist  unless  he  studied  the 
grand  works  of  Raffaelle,  Michael  Angelo,  and  others,  at 
Rome  and  Florence.  "  And  I/'  said  Flaxman,  drawing  up 
his  little  figure  to  its  full  height,  "/would  be  a  great  artist." 
"  And  a  great  artist  you  shall  be,"  said  his  wife,  "  and  visit 
Rome  too,  if  that  be  really  necessary  to  make  you  great." 
"  But  how  ? "  asked  Flaxman,  "  Work  and  economize" 
rejoined  the  brave  wife ;  "  I  will  never  have  it  said  that 
Ann  Denman  ruined  John  Flaxman  for  an  artist."  And 
so  it  was  determined  by  the  pair  that  the  journey  to  Rome 
was  to  be  made  when  their  means  would  admit.  "  I  will  go 
to  Rome,"  said  Flaxman,  "  and  show  the  President  that 
wedlock  is  for  a  man's  good  rather  than  his  harm ;  and  you, 
Ann,  shall  accompany  me." 

Patiently  and  happily  this  affectionate  couple  plodded  on 
during  five  years  in  that  humble  little  home  in  Wardour 
Street ;  always  with  the  long  journey  to  Rome  before  them. 
It  was  never  lost  sight  of  for  a  moment,  and  not  a  penny 
was  uselessly  spent  that  could  be  saved  towards  the  neces- 
sary expenses.  They  said  no  word  to  any  one  about  their 
project,  solicited  no  aid  from  the  Academy,  but  trusted 
only  to  their  own  patient  labor  and  love  to  pursue  and 
achieve  their  object.  During  this  time  Flaxman  exhibited 
very  few  works.  He  could  not  afford  marble  to  experiment 
in  original  designs ;  but  he  obtained  frequent  commissions  for 
monuments,  by  the  profits  of  which  he  maintained  himself. 
He  still  worked  for  the  Messrs.  Wedgwood,  who  proved 
good  paymasters;  and,  on  the  whole,  lie  was  thriving, 
happy,  and  hopeful.  He  was  not  a  little  respected  by  his 
neighbors,  and  those  who  knew  him  greatly  estimated  his 
sincerity,  his  honesty,  and  his  unostentatious  piety.  His 
local  respectability  was  even  such  as  to  bring  local  honors 
and  local  work  upon  him ;  so  much  so  that  he  was  on  one 
occasion  selected  by  the  rate-payers  to  collect  the  watch- 


JOHN  FLAXMAN.  183 

rate  for  the  parish  of  St.  Anne,  when  he  might  be  seen 
going  about  with  an  ink-bottle  suspended  from  his  button- 
hole, collecting  the  money. 

At  length  Flaxman  and  his  wife,  having  thriftily  accumu- 
lated a  sufficient  store  of  savings,  set  out  for  Rome.  Arrived 
there,  he  applied  himself  diligently  to  study,  maintaining 
himself,  like  other  poor  artists,  by  making  copies  from  the 
antique.  English  visitors  sought  his  studio  and  gave  him 
commissions ;  and  it  was  then  that  he  composed  his  beautiful 
designs,  illustrative  of  Homer,  JEschyluS,  and  Dante.  The 
price  paid,  for  them  was  moderate,  —  only  fifteen  shillings 
apiece  ;  but  Flaxman  worked  for  art  as  well  as  money,  and 
the  beauty  of  the  designs  brought  him  new  friends  and 
patrons.  IJe  executed  Cupid  and  Aurora  for  the  munificent 
Thomas  Hope,  and  the  Fury  of  Athamas  for  the  Earl  of 
Bristol.  He  then  prepared  to  return  to  England,  his  taste 
improved  and  cultivated  by  careful  study;  but  before  he 
left  Italy,  the  Academies  of  Florence  and  Carrara  recog- 
nized his  merit  by  electing  him  a  member. 

His  fame  had  preceded  him  to  England,  and  he  soon 
found  abundant  lucrative  employment.  While  at  Rome,  he 
had  been  commissioned  to  execute  his  famous  monument 
in  memory  of  Lord  Mansfield,  and  it  was  erected  in  the 
north  transept  of  Westminster  Abbey  shortly  after  his  re- 
turn. It  stands  there  in  majestic  grandeur,  a  monument  to 
the  genius  of  Flaxman  himself,  —  calm,  simple,  and  severe. 
No  wonder  that  Banks,  the  sculptor,  then  in  the  heyday  of 
his  fame,  exclaimed  when  he  saw  it,  "  This  little  man  cuts 
us  all  out!" 

When  the  bigwigs  of  the  Royal  Academy  heard  of  Flax- 
man's  return,  and  especially  when  they  had  an  opportunity 
of  seeing  and  admiring  his  noble  portrait-statue  of  Mans- 
field, they  were  eager  to  have  him  enrolled  among  their 
number.  The  Royal  Academy  has  always  had  the  art  of 
running  to  the  help  of  the  strong ;  and  when  an  artist  has 


184  SAMUEL  SMILES. 

proved  that  he  can  achieve  a  reputation  without  the  Acade- 
my, then  is  the  Academy  most  willing  to  "  patronize  "  him. 
He  allowed  his  name  to  be  proposed  in  the  candidates'  list 
of  associates,  and  was  immediately  elected.  His  progress 
was  now  rapid,  and  he  was  constantly  employed.  Perse- 
verance and  study,  which  had  matured  his  genius,  had  made 
him  great,  and  he  went  on  from  triumph  to  triumph.  But 
he  appeared  in  yet  a  new  character.  The  little  boy  who 
had  begun  his  studies  behind  the  poor  plaster-cast  seller's 
shop-counter  in  New  Street,  Covent  Garden,  was  now  a 
man  of  high  intellect  and  recognized  supremacy  in  art,  to 
instruct  aspiring  students,  in  the  character  of  Professor  of 
Sculpture  to  the  Royal  Academy!  And  no  man  better 
deserved  to  fill  that  distinguished  office  ;  for  none  is  so  able 
to  instruct  others  as  he  who,  for  himself  and  by  his  own 
almost  unaided  efforts,  has  learned  to  grapple  with,  and 
overcome  difficulties.  The  caustic  Fuseli  used  to  talk  of 
the  lectures  as  "  sermons  by  the  Reverend  John  Flaxmau  " ; 
for  the  sculptor  was  a  religious  man,  which  Fuseli  was  not. 
But  Flaxman  acquitted  himself  well  in  the  professorial 
chair,  as  any  one  who  reads  his  instructive  "  Lectures  on 
Sculpture,"  now  published,  may  ascertain  for  himself. 

Flaxman's  monuments  are  known  nearly  all  over  Eng- 
land. Their  mute  poetry  beautifies  most  of  the  cathedrals, 
and  many  of  the  rural  churches.  Whatever  work  of  this 
kind  he  executed,  he  threw  a  soul  and  meaning  into  it, 
embodying  some  high  Christian  idea  of  charity,  of  love,  of 
resignation,  of  affection,  or  of  kindness. 


RAPHAEL. 

BY  JOHN  G.  WfflTTIER. 

I  SHALL  not  soon  forget  that  sight : 
The  glow  of  Autumn's  westering  day, 
A  hazy  warmth,  a  dreamy  light, 
On  Raphael's  picture  lay. 

It  was  a  simple  print  I  saw, 
The  fair  face  of  a  musing  boy ; 

Yet  while  I  gazed  a  sense  of  awe 
Seemed  blending  with  my  joy. 

A  simple  print:  —  the  graceful  flow 
Of  boyhood's  soft  and  wavy  hair, 

And  fresh  young  lip  and  cheek,  and  brow 
Unmarked  and  clear,  were  there. 

Yet  through  its  sweet  and  calm  repose 

I  saw  the  inward  spirit  shine ; 
It  was  as  if  before  me  rose 

The  white  veil  of  a  shrine. 

As  if,  as  Gothland's  sage  has  told, 
The  hidden  life,  the  man  within, 

Dissevered  from  its  frame  and  mould, 
By  mortal  eye  were  seen. 


186  JOHN  G.  WHITTIER. 

Was  it  the  lifting  of  that  eye, 

The  waving  of  that  pictured  hand  ? 

Loose  as  a  cloud-wreath  on  the  sky, 
I  saw  the  walls  expand. 

The  narrow  room  had  vanished,  —  space 
Broad,  luminous,  remained  alone, 

Through  which  all  hues  and  shapes  of  grace 
And  beauty  looked  or  shone. 

Around  the  mighty  master  came 

The  marvels  which  his  pencil  wrought, 

Those  miracles  of  power  whose  fame 
Is  wide  as  human  thought. 

There  drooped  thy  more  than  mortal  face, 
0  Mother,  beautiful  and  mild ! 

Enfolding  in  one  dear  embrace 
Thy  Saviour  and  thy  Child  ! 

The  rapt  brow  of  the  Desert  John ; 

The  awful  glory  of  that  day, 
When  all  the  Father's  brightness  shone 

Through  manhood's  veil  of  clay. 

And,  midst  gray  prophet  forms,  and  wild 
Dark  visions  of  the  days  of  old, 

How  sweetly  woman's  beauty  smiled 
Through  locks  of  brown  and  gold ! 

There  Fornarina's  fair  young  face 
Once  more  upon  her  lover  shone, 

Whose  model  of  an  angel's  grace 
He  borrowed  from  her  own. 


RAPHAEL.  187 

Slow  passed  that  vision  from  my  view, 

But  not  the  lesson  which  it  taught ; 
The  soft,  calm  shadows  which  it  threw 

Still  rested  on  my  thought : 

The  truth,  that  painter,  bard,  and  sage, 
Even  in  Earth's  cold  and  changeful  clime, 

Plant  for  their  deathless  heritage 
The  fruits  and  flowers  of  time. 

We  shape  ourselves  the  joy  or  fear 

Of  which  the  coming  life  is  made, 
And  fill  our  Future's  atmosphere 

With  sunshine  or  with  shade. 

The  tissue  of  the  Life  to  be 

We  weave  with  colors  all  our  own, 
And  in  the  field  of  Destiny 

We  reap  as  we  have  sown. 

Still  shall  the  soul  around  it  call 

The  shadows  which  it  gathered  here, 
And,  painted  on  the  eternal  wall, 

The  Past  shall  reappear. 

Think  ye  the  notes  of  holy  song 

On  Milton's  tuneful  ear  have  died  ? 
Think  ye  that  Raphael's  angel  throng 

Has  vanished  from  his  side  ? 

O  no !  —  We  live  our  life  again : 

Or  warmly  touched  or  coldly  dim 
The  pictures  of  the  Past  remain,  — - 

Man's  works  shall  follow  him ! 


TUNBRIDGE    TOYS. 


BY  W.  M.  THACKERAY. 


1  WONDER  whether  those  little  silver  pencil-cases  with 
a  movable  almanac  at  the  but-end  are  still  favorite 
implements  with  boys,  and  whether  pedlers  still  hawk  them 
about  the  country  ?  Are  there  pedlers  and  hawkers  still,  or 
are  rustics  and  children  grown  too  sharp  to  deal  with  them  ? 
Those  pencil-cases,  as  far  as  my  memory  serves  me,  were 
hot  of  much  use.  The  screw  upon  which  the  movable 
almanac  turned  was  constantly  getting  loose.  The  1  of  the 
table  would  work  from  its  moorings,  under  Tuesday  or 
Wednesday,  as  the  case  might  be,  and  you  would  find,  on 
examination,  that  Th.  or  W.  was  the  23£  of  the  month 
(which  was  absurd  on  the  face  of  the  thing),  and  in  a  word, 
your  cherished  pencil-case  an  utterly  unreliable  timekeeper. 
Nor  was  this  a  matter  of  wonder.  Consider  the  position  of  a 
pencil-case  in  a  boy's  pocket.  You  had  hard-bake  in  it; 
marbles,  kept  in  your  purse,  when  the  money  was  all  gone ; 
your  mother's  purse  knitted  so  fondly  and  supplied  with  a 
little  bit  of  gold,  long  since,  —  prodigal  little  son  !  —  scat- 
tered  amongst  the  swine,  —  I  mean  amongst  brandy-balls, 
open  tarts,  three-cornered  puffs,  and  similar  abominations. 
You  had  a  top  and  string ;  a  knife ;  a  piece  of  cobbler's 
wax ;  two  or  three  bullets ;  a  Little  Warbler  ;  and  I,  for  my 
part,  remember,  for  a  considerable  period,  a  brass-barrelled 
pocket-pistol  (which  would  fire  beautifully,  for  with  it  I  shot 


TUNBRIDGE  TOYS.  181) 

off  a  button  from  Butt  Major's  jacket)  ;  —  with  all  these 
things,  and  ever  so  many  more,  clinking  and  rattling  in 
your  pockets,  and  your  hands,  of  course,  keeping  them  in 
perpetual  movement,  how  could  you  expect  your  movable 
almanac  not  to  be  twisted  out  of  its  place  now  and  again, 
—  your  pencil-case  to  be  bent,  —  your  liquorice-water  not 
to  leak  out  of  your  bottle  over  the  cobbler's  wax,  your 
bull's-eyes  not  to  ram  up  the  lock  and  barrel  of  your  pistol, 
and  so  forth? 

In  the  month  of  June,  thirty-seven  years  ago,  I  bought 
one  of  those  pencil-cases  from  a  boy  whom  I  shall  call 
Hawker,  and  who  was  in  my  form.  Is  he  dead  ?  Is  he  a 
millionnaire  ?  Is  he  a  bankrupt  now  ?  He  was  an  immense 
screw  at  school,  and  I  believe  to  this  day  that  the  value  of 
the  thing  for  which  I  owed  and  eventually  paid  three-and- 
sixpence  was  in  reality  not  one-and-nine. 

I  certainly  enjoyed  the  case  at  first  a  good  deal,  and 
amused  myself  with  twiddling  round  the  movable  calendar. 
But  this  pleasure  wore  off.  The  jewel,  as  I  said,  was  not 
paid  for,  and  Hawker,  a  large  and  violent  boy,  was  exceed- 
ingly unpleasant  as  a  creditor.  His  constant  remark  was, 
"  When  are  you  going  to  pay  me  that  three-and-sixpence  ? 
What  sneaks  your  relations  must  be !  They  come  to  see 
you.  You  go  out  to  them  on  Saturdays  and  Sundays,  and 
they  never  give  you  anything!  Don't  tell  me,  you  little  hum- 
bug ! "  and  so  forth.  The  truth  is,  that  my  relations  were 
respectable ;  but  my  parents  were  making  a  tour  in  Scot- 
land ;  and  my  friends  in  London,  whom  I  used  to  go  and  see, 
were  most  kind  to  me,  certainly,  but  somehow  never  tipped 
me.  That  term,  of  May  to  August,  1823,  passed  in  agonies 
then,  in  consequence  of  my  debt  to  Hawker.  What  was 
the  pleasure  of  a  calendar  pencil-case  in  comparison  with 
the  doubt  and  torture  of  mind  occasioned  by  the  sense  of 
the  debt,  and  the  constant  reproach  in  that  fellow's  scowling 
eyes  and  gloomy,  coarse  reminders  ?  How  was  I  to  pay  off 


190  W.  M.  THACKERAY. 

such  a  debt  out  of  sixpence  a  week  ?  ludicrous  !  "TCTiy  did 
not  some  one  come  to  see  me,  and  tip  me  ?  Ah !  my  dear 
sir,  if  you  have  any  little  friends  at  school,  go  and  see  them, 
and  do  the  natural  thing  by  them.  You  won't  miss  the 
sovereign.  You  don't  know  what  a  blessing  it  will  be  tc 
them.  Don't  fancy  they  are  too  old,  —  try  'em.  And  thej 
will  remember  you,  and  bless  you  in  future  days ;  and  theii 
gratitude  shall  accompany  your  dreary  after  life  and  they 
shall  meet  you  kindly  when  thanks  for  kindness  are  scant. 
O  mercy !  shall  I  ever  forget  that  sovereign  you  gave  me, 
Captain  Bob  ?  or  the  agonies  of  being  in  debt  to  Hawker  ? 
In  that  very  term,  a  relation  of  mine  was  going  to  India.  I 
actually  was  fetched  from  school  in  order  to  take  leave  of 
him.  I  am  afraid  I  told  Hawker  of  this  circumstance.  I 
own  I  speculated  upon  my  friend's  giving  me  a  pound.  A 
pound?  Pooh!  A  relation  going  to  India,  and  deeply 
affected  at  parting  from  his  darling  kinsman,  might  give 
five  pounds  to  the  dear  fellow  !  .  .  .  .  There  was  Hawker 
when  I  came  back,  —  of  course,  there  he  was.  As  he 
looked  in  my  scared  face,  his  turned  livid  with  rage.  He 
muttered  curses,  terrible  from  the  lips  of  so  young  a  boy. 
My  relation,  about  to  cross  the  ocean  to  fill  a  lucrative 
appointment,  asked  me  with  much  interest  about  my  pro- 
gress at  school,  heard  me  construe  a  passage  of  Eutropius, 
the  pleasing  Latin  work  on  which  I  was  then  engaged, 
gave  me  a  God  bless  you,  and  sent  me  back  to  school ;  upon 
my  word  of  honor,  without  so  much  as  a  half-crown  !  It  is 
all  very  well,  my  dear  sir,  to  say  that  boys  contract  habits 
of  expecting  tips  from  their  parents'  friends,  that  they  be- 
come avaricious,  and  so  forth.  Avaricious  !  fudge  !  Boys 
contract  habits  of  tart  and  toffee  eating,  which  they  do  not 
carry  into  after  life.  On  the  contrary,  I  wish  I  did  like 
'em.  What  raptures  of  pleasure  one  could  have  now  for 
five  shillings,  if  one  could  but  pick  it  off  the  pastry-cook's 
tray !  No.  If  you  have  any  little  friends  at  school,  out 


TUNBRIDGE  TOYS.  191 

with  your  half-crowns,  my  friend,  and  impart  to  those  little 
ones  the  little  fleeting  joys  of  their  age. 

Well,  then.  At  the  beginning  of  August,  1823,  Bartle- 
my-tide  holidays  came,  and  I  was  to  go  to  my  parents, 
who  were  at  Tunbridge  Wells.  My  place  in  the  coach  was 
taken  by  my  tutor's  servants,  —  Bolt-in-Tun,  Fleet  Street, 
seven  o'clock  in  the  morning,  was  the  word.  My  tutor,  the 

Rev.  Edward  P ,  to  whom  I  hereby  present  my  best 

compliments,  had  a  parting  interview  with  me:  gave  me 
my  little  account  for  my  governor :  the  remaining  part  of  the 
coach-hire ;  five  shillings  for  my  own  expenses ;  and  some 
five-and-twenty  shillings  on  an  old  account  which  had  been 
overpaid,  and  was  to  be  restored  to  my  family. 

Away  I  ran  and  paid  Hawker  his  three-and-six.  Ouf ! 
what  a  weight  it  was  off  my  mind !  (He  was  a  Norfolk 
boy,  and  used  to  go  home  from  Mrs.  Nelson's  Bell  Inn, 
Aldgate,  —  but  that  is  not  to  the  point)  The  next  morn- 
ing, of  course,  we  were  an  hour  before  the  time.  I  and 
another  boy  shared  a  hackney-coach;  two-and-six:  porter 
for  putting  luggage  on  coach,  threepence.  I  had  no  more 
money  of  my  own  left.  Rasher  well,  my  companion,  went 
into  the  Bolt-in-Tun  coffee-room,  and  had  a  good  breakfast. 
I  could  n't ;  because,  though  I  had  five-and-twenty  shillings 
of  my  parents'  money,  I  had  none  of  my  own,  you  see. 

I  certainly  intended  to  go  without  breakfast,  and  still 
remember  how  strongly  I  had  that  resolution  in  my  mind. 
But  there  was  that  hour  to  wait  A  beautiful  August 
morning,  —  I  am  very  hungry.  There  is  Rasherwell 
"  tucking  "  away  in  the  coffee-room.  I  pace  the  street,  as 
sadly  almost  as  if  I  had  been  coming  to  school,  not  going 
thence.  I  turn  into  a  court  by  mere  chance,  —  I  vow  it 
was  by  mere  chance,  —  and  there  I  see  a  coffee-shop  with 
a  placard  in  the  window,  Coffee  Twopence.  Round  of  but- 
tered toast,  Twopence.  And  here  am  I  hungry,  penniless, 
with  five-and-twenty  shillings  of  my  parents'  money  in  my 
pocket. 


192  W.  M.  THACKERAY. 

What  would  you  have  done  ?  You  see  I  had  had  my 
money,  and  spent  it  in  that  pencil-case  affair.  The  five- 
and-twenty  shillings  were  a  trust,  —  by  me  to  be  handed 
over. 

But  then  would  my  parents  wish  their  only  child  to  be 
actually  without  breakfast  ?  Having  this  money,  and  being 
so  hungry,  so  very  hungry,  might  n't  I  take  ever  so  little. 
Might  n't  I  at  home  eat  as  much  as  I  chose  ? 

Well,  I  went  into  the  coffee-shop,  and  spent  fourpence. 
1  remember  the  taste  of  the  coffee  and  toast  to  this  day,  — 
a  peculiar,  muddy,  not-sweet-enough,  most  fragrant  coffee, 
—  a  rich,  rancid,  yet  not-buttered-enough,  delicious  toast. 
The  waiter  had  nothing.  At  any  rate,  fourpence  I  know 
was  the  sum  I  spent.  And,  the  hunger  appeased,  I  got  on 
the  coach  a  guilty  being. 

At  the  last  stage  —  what  is  its  name  ?  I  have  forgotten 
in  seven-and-thirty  years  —  there  is  an  inn  with  a  little 
green  and  trees  before  it ;  and  by  the  trees  there  is  an  open 
carriage.  It  is  our  carriage.  Yes,  there  are  Prince  and 
Blucher,  the  horses ;  and  my  parents  in  the  carriage.  Oh ! 
how  I  had  been  counting  the  days  until  this  one  came. 
Oh  !  how  happy  had  I  been  to  see  them  yesterday  !  But 
there  was  that  fourpence.  All  the  journey  down,  the  toast 
had  choked  me,  and  the  coffee  poisoned  me. 

I  was  in  such  a  state  of  remorse  about  the  fourpence,  that 
I  forgot  the  maternal  joy  and  caresses,  the  tender  paternal 
voice.  I  pull  out  the  twenty-four  shillings  and  eightpence 
with  a  trembling  hand. 

"  Here  's  your  money,"  I  gasp  out,  "  which  Mr.  P 

owes  you,  all  but  fourpence.  I  owed  three-and-sixpence  to 
Hawker  out  of  my  money  for  a  pencil-case,  and  I  had  none 
left,  and  I  took  fourpence  of  yours,  and  had  some  coffee  at  a 
shop." 

I  suppose  I  must  have  been  choking  whilst  uttering  this 
confession. 


TUNBRIDGE  TOYS.  193 

"  My  dear  boy,"  says  the  governor,  "  why  did  n't  you  go 
and  breakfast  at  the  hotel  ?  " 

"  He  must  be  starved,"  says  my  mother. 

I  had  confessed ;  I  had  been  a  prodigal ;  I  had  been  taken 
back  to  my  parents'  arms  again.  It  was  not  a  very  great 
crime  as  yet,  or  a  very  long  career  of  prodigality ;  but  don't 
we  know  that  a  boy  who  takes  a  pin  which  is  not  his  own, 
will  take  a  thousand  pounds  when  occasion  serves,  bring  his 
parents'  gray  heads  with  sorrow  to  the  grave,  and  carry  his 
own  to  the  gallows?  Witness  the  career  of  Dick  Idle, 
upon  whom  our  friend  Mr.  Sala  has  been  discoursing. 
Dick  only  began  by  playing  pitch-and-toss  on  a  tombstone : 
playing  fair,  for  what  we  know ;  and  even  for  that  sin  he 
was  promptly  caned  by  the  beadle.  The  bamboo  was  in- 
effectual to  cane  that  reprobate's  bad  courses  out  of  him. 
From  pitch-and-toss  he  proceeded  to  manslaughter  if  neces- 
sary :  to  highway  robbery ;  to  Tyburn  and  the  rope  there 
Ah !  Heaven  be  thanked,  my  parents'  heads  are  still  above 
the  grass,  and  mine  still  out  of  the  noose. 

As  I  look  up  from  my  desk,  I  see  Tunbridge  "Wells  Com- 
mon and  the  rocks,  the  strange  familiar  place  which  I 
remember  forty  years  ago.  Boys  saunter  over  the  green 
with  stumps  and  cricket-bats.  Other  boys  gallop  by  on  the 
riding-master's  hacks.  I  protest  it  is  Cramp,  Riding-Mas- 
ter, as  it  used  to  be  in  the  reign  of  George  IV.,  and  that 
Centaur  Cramp  must  be  at  least  a  hundred  years  old. 
Yonder  comes  a  footman  with  a  bundle  of  novels  from  the 
library.  Are  they  as  good  as  our  novels  ?  Oh !  how  de- 
lightful they  were  !  Shades  of  Valancour,  awful  ghost  of 
Manfroni,  how  I  shudder  at  your  appearance !  Sweet 
image  of  Thaddeus  of  Warsaw,  how  often  has  this  almost 
infantile  hand  tried  to  depict  you  in  a  Polish  cap  and  richly 
embroidered  tights !  And  as  for  Corinthian  Tom  in  light 
blue  pantaloons  and  Hessians,  and  Jerry  Hawthorn  from 
the  country,  can  all  the  fashion,  can  all  the  splendor  of  real 
13 


194  W.  M.  THACKERAY. 

life  which  these  eyes  have  subsequently  beheld,  can  all  the 
wit  I  have  heard  or  read  in  later  times,  compare  with  your 
fashion,  with  your  brilliancy,  with  your  delightful  grace,  and 
sparkling  vivacious  rattle  ? 

Who  knows  ?  They  may  have  kept  those  very  books  at 
the  library  still,  —  at  the  well-remembered  library  on  the 
Pantiles,  where  they  sell  that  delightful,  useful  Tunbridge 
ware.  I  will  go  and  see.  I  went  my  way  to  the  Pantiles, 
the  queer  little  old-world  Pantiles,  where  a  hundred  years 
since  so  much  good  company  came  to  take  its  pleasure.  Is 
it  possible,  that  in  the  past  century,  gentlefolks  of  the  first 
rank  (as  I  read  lately  in  a  Lecture  on  George  II.  in  this 
Magazine)  assembled  here  and  entertained  each  other  with 
gaming,  dancing,  fiddling,  and  tea?  There  are  fiddlers, 
harpers,  and  trumpeters  performing  at  this  moment  in  a 
weak  little  old  balcony,  but  where  is  the  fine  company? 
Where  are  the  earls,  duchesses,  bishops,  and  magnificent 
embroidered  gamesters  ?  A  half-dozen  of  children  and  their 
nurses  are  listening  to  the  musicians  ;  an  old  lady  or  two  in 
a  poke  bonnet  passes,  and  for  the  rest,  I  see  but  an  unin- 
teresting population  of  native  tradesmen.  As  for  the  li- 
brary, its  window  is  full  of  pictures  of  burly  theologians,  and 
their  works,  sermons,  apologues,  and  so  forth.  Can  I  go  in 
and  ask  the  young  ladies  at  the  counter  for  Manfroni,  or  the 
One-Handed  Monk,  and  Life  in  London,  or  the  Adventures 
of  Corinthian  Tom,  Jeremiah  Hawthorn,  Esq.,  and  their 
friend  Bob  Logic  ?  —  absurd.  I  turn  away  abashed  from 
the  casement,  —  from  the  Pantiles,  —  no  longer  Pantiles, 
but  Parade.  I  stroll  over  the  Common  and  survey  the 
beautiful  purple  hills  around,  twinkling  with  a  thousand 
bright  villas,  which  have  sprung  up  over  this  charming 
ground  since  first  I  saw  it.  What  an  admirable  scene  of 
peace  and  plenty !  What  a  delicious  air  breathes  over  the 
heath,  blows  the  cloud  shadows  across  it,  and  murmurs 
through  the  full-clad  trees !  Can  the  world  show  a  land 


TUNBRIDGE  TOYS.  195 

fairer,  richer,  more  cheerful  ?  I  see  a  portion  of  it  when  I 
look  up  from  the  window  at  which  I  write.  But  fair  scene, 
green  woods,  bright  terraces  gleaming  in  sunshine,  and  pur- 
ple clouds  swollen  with  summer  rain  —  nay,  the  very  pages 
over  which  my  head  bends  —  disappear  from  before  my 
eyes.  They  are  looking  backwards,  back  into  forty  years 
off,  into  a  dark  room,  into  a  little  house  hard  by  on  the 
Common  here,  in  the  Bartlemy-tide  holidays.  The  parents 
have  gone  to  town  for  two  days :  the  house  is  all  his  own, 
his  own  and  a  grim  old  maid-servant's,  and  a  little  boy  is 
seated  at  night  in  the  lonely  drawing-room,  —  poring  over 
Manfrani,  or  the  One- Handed  Monk,  so  frightened  that  he 
scarcely  dares  to  turn  round. 


TO    THE    MOON. 


BY  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 


QUEEN  of  the  stars !  —  so  gentle,  so  benign, 
That  ancient  Fable  did  to  thee  assign, 
When  darkness  creeping  o'er  thy  silver  brow 
Warned  thee  these  upper  regions  to  forego, 
Alternate  empire  in  the  shades  below,  — 
A  Bard,  who,  lately  near  the  wide-spread  sea 
Traversed  by  gleaming  ships,  looked  up  to  thee 
With  grateful  thoughts,  doth  now  thy  rising  hail 
From  the  close  confines  of  a  shadowy  vale. 
Glory  of  night,  conspicuous  yet  serene, 
Nor  less  attractive  when  by  glimpses  seen 
Through  cloudy  umbrage,  well  might  that  fair  face, 
And  all  those  attributes  of  modest  grace, 
In  days  when  Fancy  wrought  unchecked  by  fear, 
Down  to  the  green  earth  fetch  thee  from  thy  sphere, 
To  sit  in  leafy  woods  by  fountains  clear ! 

0  still  beloved  (for  thine,  meek  Power,  are  charms 
That  fascinate  the  very  Babe  in  arms, 
While  he,  uplifted  towards  thee,  laughs  outright, 
Spreading  his  little  palms  in  his  glad  Mother's  sight) 
O  still  beloved,  once  worshipped !  Time,  that  frowns 
In  his  destructive  flight  on  earthly  crowns, 
Spares  thy  mild  splendor  ;  still  those  far-shot  beams 
Tremble  on  dancing  waves  and  rippling  streams 


TO  THE  MOON.  197 

With  stainless  touch,  as  chaste  as  when  thy  praise 

Was  sung  by  Virgin-choirs  in  festal  lays ; 

And  through  dark  trials  still  dost  thou  explore 

Thy  way  for  increase  punctual  as  of  yore, 

When  teeming  Matrons  —  yielding  to  rude  faith 

In  mysteries  of  birth  and  life  and  death 

And  painfiil  struggle  and  deliverance  —  prayed 

Of  thee  to  visit  them  with  lenient  aid. 

What  though  the  rites  be  swept  away,  the  fanes 

Extinct  that  echoed  to  the  votive  strains ; 

Yet  thy  mild  aspect  does  not,  cannot,  cease 

Love  to  promote  and  purity  and  peace  ; 

And  Fancy,  unreproved,  even  yet  may  trace 

Faint  types  of  suffering  in  thy  beamless  face. 

Then,  silent  Monitress !  let  us  —  not  blind 
To  worlds  unthought  of  till  the  searching  mind 
Of  Science  laid  them  open  to  mankind  — 
Told,  also,  how  the  voiceless  heavens  declare 
God's  glory ;  and  acknowledging  thy  share 
In  that  blest  charge ;  let  us  —  without  offence 
To  aught  of  highest,  holiest  influence  — 
Receive  whatever  good  5t  is  given  thee  to  dispense. 
May  sage  and  simple,  catching  with  one  eye 
The  moral  intimations  of  the  sky, 
Learn  from  thy  course,  where'er  their  own  be  taken, 
"  To  look  on  tempests,  and  be  never  shaken  " ; 
To  keep  with  faithful  step  the  appointed  way 
Eclipsing  or  eclipsed,  by  night  or  day, 
And  from  example  of  thy  monthly  range 
Gently  to  brook  decline  and  fatal  change  ; 
Meek,  patient,  steadfast,  and  with  loftier  scope, 
Than  thy  revival  yields,  for  gladsome  hope  I 


CHARACTER   OF    WATT. 


BY  LORD  JEFFREY. 

INDEPENDENTLY  of  his  great  attainments  in  mechan- 
ics, Mr.  Watt  was  an  extraordinary,  and  in  many  respects 
a  wonderful  man.  Perhaps  no  individual  in  his  age  possessed 
so  much  and  such  varied  and  exact  information,  —  had  read 
so  much,  or  remembered  what  he  had  read  so  accurately 
and  well.  He  had  infinite  quickness  of  apprehension,  a  pro- 
digious memory,  and  a  certain  rectifying  and  methodizing 
power  of  understanding,  which  extracted  something  precious 
out  of  all  that  was  presented  to  it.  His  stores  of  miscella- 
neous knowledge  were  immense,  and  yet  less  astonishing 
than  the  command  he  had  at  all  times  over  them.  It 
seemed  as  if  every  subject  that  was  casually  started  in  con 
versation  with  him  had  been  that  which  he  had  been  last 
occupied  in  studying  and  exhausting,  —  such  was  the  copi- 
ousness, the  precision,  and  the  admirable  clearness  of  the 
information  which  he  poured  out  upon  it  without  effort  or 
hesitation.  Nor  was  this  promptitude  and  compass  of  knowl- 
edge confined  in  any  degree  to  the  studies  connected  with 
his  ordinary  pursuits.  That  he  should  have  been  minutely 
and  extensively  skilled  in  chemistry  and  the  arts,  and  in 
most  of  the  branches  of  physical  science,  might  perhaps  have 
been  conjectured ;  but  it  could  not  have  been  inferred  from 
his  usual  occupations,  and  probably  is  not  generally  known, 
that  he  was  c  iriously  learned  in  many  branches  of  antiouity. 


CHARACTER  OF  WATT.  199 

metaphysics,  medicine,  and  etymology,  and  perfectly  at  home 
in  all  the  details  of  architecture,  music,  and  law.  He  was 
well  acquainted,  too,  with  most  of  the  modern  languages, 
and  familiar  with  their  most  recent  literature.  Nor  was  it 
at  all  extraordinary  to  hear  the  great  mechanician  and 
engineer  detailing  and  expounding,  for  hours  together,  the 
metaphysical  theories  of  the  German  logicians,  or  criticising 
the  measures  or  the  matter  of  the  German  poetry. 

His  astonishing  memory  was  aided,  no  doubt,  in  a  great 
measure,  by  a  still  higher  and  rarer  faculty, — by  his  power 
of  digesting  and  arranging  in  its  proper  place  all  the  infor- 
mation he  received,  and  of  casting  aside  and  rejecting,  as  it 
were  instinctively,  whatever  was  worthless  or  immaterial. 
Every  conception  that  was  suggested  to  his  mind  seemed 
instantly  to  take  its  place  among  its  other  rich  furniture,  and 
to  be  condensed  into  the  smallest  and  most  convenient  form. 
He  never  appeared,  therefore,  to  be  at  all  encumbered  or 
perplexed  with  the  verbiage  of  the  dull  books  he  perused,  or 
the  idle  talk  to  which  he  listened ;  but  to  have  at  once  ex- 
tracted, by  a  kind  of  intellectual  alchemy,  all  that  was  wor- 
thy of  attention,  and  to  have  reduced  it,  for  his  own  use,  to 
its  true  value  and  to  its  simplest  form.  And  thus  it  often 
happened  that  a  great  deal  more  was  learned  from  his  brief 
and  vigorous  account  of  the  theories  and  arguments  of 
tedious  writers,  than  an  ordinary  student  could  ever  have 
derived  from  the  most  painful  study  of  the  originals,  and 
that  errors  and  absurdities  became  manifest,  from  the  mere 
clearness  and  plainness  of  his  statement  of  them,  which  might 
have  deluded  and  perplexed  most  of  his  hearers  without  that 
invaluable  assistance. 

It  is  needless  to  say  that,  with  those  vast  resources,  his 
conversation  was  at  all  times  rich  and  instructive  in  no  ordi- 
nary degree  :  but  it  was,  if  possible,  still  more  pleasing  than 
wise,  and  had  all  the  charms  of  familiarity,  with  all  the  sub- 
stantial treasures  of  knowledge.  No  man  could  be  more 


200  LORD  JEFFREY. 

social  in  his  spirit,  less  assuming  or  fastidious  in  his  man- 
ners, or  more  kind  and  indulgent  towards  all  who  ap- 
proached him.  He  rather  liked  to  talk,  —  at  least  in  his 
latter  years  ;  but  though  he  took  a  considerable  share  of  the 
conversation,  he  rarely  suggested  the  topics  on  which  it  was 
to  turn,  but  readily  and  quietly  took  up  whatever  was  pre- 
sented by  those  around  him,  and  astonished  the  idle  and 
barren  propounders  of  an  ordinary  theme  by  the  treasures 
which  he  drew  from  the  mine  they  had  unconsciously  opened. 
He  generally  seemed,  indeed,  to  have  no  choice  or  predilec- 
tion for  one  subject  of  discourse  rather  than  another ;  but 
allowed  his  mind,  like  a  great  cyclopaedia,  to  be  opened  at 
any  letter  his  associates  might  choose  to  turn  up,  and  only 
endeavor  to  select  from  his  inexhaustible  stores  what  might 
be  best  adapted  to  the  taste  of  his  present  hearers.  As  to 
their  capacity  he  gave  himself  no  trouble  ;  and,  indeed,  such 
was  his  singular  talent  for  making  all  tilings  plain,  clear, 
and  intelligible,  that  scarcely  any  one  could  be  aware  of  such 
a  deficiency  in  his  presence.  His  talk,  too,  though  overflow- 
ing with  information,  had  no  resemblance  to  lecturing  or 
solemn  discoursing,  but,  on  the  contrary,  was  full  of  collo- 
quial spirit  and  pleasantry.  He  had  a  certain  quiet  and 
grave  humor,  which  ran  through  most  of  his  conversation, 
and  a  vein  of  temperate  jocularity,  which  gave  infinite  zest 
and  effect  to  the  condensed  and  inexhaustible  information 
which  formed  its  main  staple  and  characteristic.  There  was 
a  little  air  of  affected  testiness,  and  a  tone  of  pretended 
rebuke  and  contradiction,  with  which  he  used  to  address 
his  younger  friends,  that  was  always  felt  by  them  as  an  en- 
dearing mark  of  his  kindness  and  familiarity,  and  prized 
accordingly,  far  beyond  all  the  solemn  compliments  that  ever 
proceeded  from  the  lips  of  authority.  His  voice  was  deep 
and  powerful,  though  he  commonly  spoke  in  a  low  and 
somewhat  monotonous  tone,  which  harmonized  admirably 
with  the  weight  and  brevity  of  his  observations,  and  set  off 


CHARACTER  OF  WATT.  201 

to  the  greatest  advantage  the  pleasant  anecdotes,  which  he 
delivered  with  the  same  grave  brow,  and  the  same  calm 
smile  playing  soberly  on  his  lips.  There  was  nothing  of 
effort,  indeed,  or  impatience,  any  more  than  of  pride  or  lev- 
ity, m  his  demeanor ;  and  there  was  a  finer  expression  of 
reposing  strength  and  mild  self-possession  in  his  manner 
than  we  ever  recollect  to  have  met  with  in  any  other  person. 
He  had  in  his  character  the  utmost  abhorrence  for  all  sorts 
of  forwardness,  parade,  and  pretensions  ;  and,  indeed,  never 
failed  to  put  all  such  impostures  out  of  countenance,  by  the 
manly  plainness  and  honest  intrepidity  of  his  language  aud 
deportment. 

In  his  temper  and  dispositions  he  was  not  only  kind  and 
affectionate*  but  generous,  and  considerate  of  the  feelings  of 
all  around  him,  and  gave  the  most  liberal  assistance  and 
encouragement  to  all  young  persons  who  showed  any  indi- 
cations of  talent,  or  applied  to  him  for  patronage  or  advice 
His  health,  which  was  delicate  from  his  youth  upwards, 
seemed  to  become  firmer  as  he  advanced  in  years ;  and  he 
preserved,  up  almost  to  the  last  moment  of  his  existence, 
not  only  the  full  command  of  his  extraordinary  intellect,  but 
all  the  alacrity  of  spirit  and  the  social  gayety  which  had 
illumined  his  happiest  days.  His  friends  in  this  part  of  the 
country  never  saw  him  more  full  of  intellectual  vigor  and 
colloquial  animation  —  never  more  delightful  or  more  in- 
structive—  than  in  his  last  visit  to  Scotland  in  autumn, 
1817.  Indeed,  it  was  after  that  time  that  he  applied  him- 
self, with  all  the  ardor  of  early  life,  to  the  invention  of  a 
machine  for  mechanically  copying  all  sorts  of  sculpture  and 
statuary,  and  distributed  among  hi  a  friends  some  of  its 
earliest  performances,  as  the  productions  of  a  young  artist 
just  entering  on  his  eighty-third  year. 

This  happy  and  useful  life  came  at  last  to  a  gentle 
close.  He  had  suffered  some  inconvenience  through  the 
Bummer,  but  was  not  seriously  indisposed  till  within  a  few 


202  LORD  JEFFREY. 

weeks  from  his  death.  He  then  became  perfectly  aware  of 
the  event  which  was  approaching ;  and,  with  his  usual  tran- 
quillity and  benevolence  of  nature,  seemed  only  anxious  to 
point  out  to  the  friends  around  him  the  many  sources  of 
consolation  which  were  afforded  by  the  circumstances  under 
which  it  was  about  to  take  place.  He  expressed  his  sincere 
gratitude  to  Providence  for  the  length  of  days  with  which 
he  had  been  blessed,  and  his  exemption  from  most  of  the 
infirmities  of  age,  as  well  as  for  the  calm  and  cheerful  even- 
ing of  life  that  he  had  been  permitted  to  enjoy,  after  the 
honorable  labors  of  the  day  had  been  concluded.  And  thus, 
full  of  years  and  honors,  in  all  calmness  and  tranquillity,  he 
yielded  up  his  soul,  without  pang  or  struggle,  and  passed 
from  the  bosom  of  his  family  to  that  of  his  GOD.' 


A  DISSERTATION  UPON  EOAST  PIG, 

BY  CHARLES  LAMB. 


MANKIND,  says  a  Chinese  manuscript,  which  my 
friend  M.  was  obliging  enough  to  read  and  explain 
to  me,  for  the  first  seventy  thousand  ages  ate  their  meat 
raw,  clawing  or  biting  it  from  the  living  animal,  just  as 
they  do  in  Abyssinia  to  this  day.  This  period  is  not 
obscurely  hinted  at  by  their  great  Confucius  in  the  second 
chapter  of  his  Mundane  Mutations,  where  he  designates  a 
kind  of  golden  age  by  the  term  Cho-fang,  literally  the 
Cooks'  Holiday.  The  manuscript  goes  on  to  say,  that  the 
art  of  roasting,  or  rather  broiling  (which  I  take  to  be 
the  elder  brother)  was  accidentally  discovered  in  the 
manner  following:  The  swineherd,  Ho-ti,  having  gone 
out  into  the  woods  one  morning,  as  his  manner  was,  to 
collect  mast  for  his  hogs,  left  his  cottage  in  the  care  of 
his  eldest  son,  Bo-bo,  a  great  lubberly  boy,  who  being 
fond  of  playing  with  fire,  as  yonkers  of  his  age  commonly 
are,  let  some  sparks  escape  into  a  bundle  of  straw,  which 
kindling  quickly,  spread  the  conflagration  over  every  part 
of  their  poor  mansion,  till  it  was  reduced  to  ashes.  To- 
gether with  the  cottage,  (a  sorry  antedeluvian  makeshift 
of  a  building,  you  may  think  it,)  what  was  of  much  more 
importance,  a  fine  litter  of  new-farrowed  pigs,  no  less 
than  nine  in  number,  perished.  China  pigs  have  been 
esteemed  a  luxury  all  over  the  East,  from  the  remotest 


204  CHARLES  LAMB. 

» 

periods  that  we  read  of.  Bo-bo  was  in  the  utmost  conster- 
nation, as  you  may  think,  not  so  much  for  the  sake  of  the 
tenement,  which  his  father  and  he  could  easily  build  up 
again  with  a  few  dry  branches,  and  the  labor  of  an  hour 
or  two.  at  any  time,  as  for  the  loss  of  the  pigs.  While  he 
was  thinking  what  he  should  say  to  his  father,  and  wring- 
ing his  hands  over  the  smoking  remnants  of  one  of  th 
untimely  sufferers,  an  odor  assailed  his  nostrils,  unlike  I 
scent  which  he  had  before  experienced.  AVhat  could  it  pro- 
1  from?  —  not  from  the  burnt  cottage,  —  he  had  smelt 
that  smell  before,  —  indeed  this  was  by  no  means  the  tirst 

Ment  of  the  kind  which  had  occurred  through  the  D 
licence  of  this  unlucky  young  firebrand.     Much  less  did  it 
mble  that  of  any  known  herb,  weed,  or  flower.     A  pre- 
monitory moistening  at  the  same  time  overflowed  his  nether 
lip.    He  knew  not  what  to  think.     He  next  stooped  down 
to  feel  the  pig,  if  there  were  any  signs  of  life  in  it.     He 
burnt  his  lingers,  and  to  cool  them  he  applied  them  in  his 
booby  fashion  to  his  mouth.     Some  of  the  crumbs  of  the 
scorched  skin  had  come  away  with  his  lingers,  and  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life  (in  the  world's  life  indeed,  for  before 
him  no  man  had  known  it)  he  tasted  —  crackling.'    Again 
he  felt  and  fumbled  at  the  pig.     It  did  not  burn  him  so  much 
now,  still  he  licked  his  lingers  from  a  sort  of  habit.     The 
truth  at  length  broke  into  his  slow  understanding,  that  it 
was  the  pig  that  smelt  so.  and  the  pig  that  tasted  so  deli- 
cious:  and  surrendering  himself  up  to  the  new-born  plea- 
sure, he  fell  to  tearing  up  whole  handful s  of  the  scorched 
skin  with  the  flesh  next  it.  and  was  cramming  it  down  his 
throat  in  his  beastly  lashion.  when  his  sire  entered  amid 
the  smoking  rafters,  armed  with  retributory  cudgel,  and 
finding  how  affairs  stood,  began  to   rain  blows  upon  the 
young   rogue's    shoulders,   as    thick  as    hailstones,   which 
Bo-bo  heeded  not  any  more  than  if  they  had  been  flies. 
The  tickling  pleasure,  which  he  experienced  in  his  lower 


A  DISSERTATION   UPON  ROAST  PIG.  205 

regions,  had  rendered  him  quite  callous  to  any  inconve- 
r.i.-iices  he  might  feel  in  those  remote  quarters.  His 
father  ini^lit  lay  on,  hut  he  could  not  beat  him  from  his 
'11  he  ha<l  fairly  made  an  end  of  it,  when,  becoming 
a  little  more  sensible  of  his  situation,  something  like  the 
following  dialogue  ciiMi<-d. 

4-  You  graceless  whelp,  what  have  you  got  there  de- 
vouring? Is  it  not  enough  that  you  hav»-  burnt  rue  down 
ili  re.-  houses  with  your  dogs  tricks,  and  be  lunged  to 
you!  but  you  must  be  eating  fire,  and  I  know  not  what;  — 
what  have  you  got  there,  I  say  ?  " 

"O  father,  the  pig,  the  pig!  do  come  and  taste  how 
nice  the  burnt  pig  eats." 

Tin-  cars  of  Ho-ti  tingled  with  horror.  He  cursed  his 
son,  and  he  cursed  himself  that  ever  he  should  beget  a 
son  that  should  eat  burnt  pig. 

Bo-bo,  whose  scent  was  wonderfully  sharpened  since 
morning,  soon  raked  out  another  pig,  and  fairly  rending 
it  asunder,  thrust  the  lesser  half  by  main  force  into  the 
fists  of  Ho-ti,  still  shouting  out,  "  Eat,  eat,  eat  the  burnt 
pig,  father,  only  taste ;  O  Lord ! "  —  with  such-like  barba- 
rous ejaculations,  cramming  all  the  while  as  if  he  would 
choke. 

Ho-ti  trembled  every  joint  while  he  grasped  the  abom- 
inable thing,  wavering  whether  he  should  not  put  his  son 
to  death  for  an  unnatural  young  monster,  when  the  crack- 
ling scorching  hi-  fingers,  as  it  had  done  his  son's,  and 
applying  the  same  remedy  to  them,  he  in  his  turn  tasted 
some  of  its  flavor,  which,  make  what  sour  mouths  he 
would  for  a  pretence,  proved  not  altogether  displeasing  to 
him.  In  conclusion  (for  the  manuscript  here  is  a  little 
tedious)  both  father  arid  son  fairly  set  down  to  the  mess, 
and  never  left  off  till  they  had  despatched  all  that  remained 
of  the  litter. 

Bo-bo  was  strictly  enjoined  not  to  let  the  secret  escape, 


206  CHARLES  LAMB. 

for  the  neighbors  would  certainly  have  stoned  them  for  a 
couple  of  abominable  wretches,  who  could  think  of  im- 
proving upon  the  good  meat  which  God  had  sent  them. 
Nevertheless,  strange  stories  got  about.  It  was  observed 
that  Ho-ti's  cottage  was  burnt  down  now  more  frequently 
than  ever.  Nothing  but  fires  from  this  time  forwa.d. 
Some  would  break  out  in  broad  day,  others  in  the  night 
time.  As  often  as  the  sow  farrowed,  so  sure  was  the 
house  of  Ho-ti  to  be  in  a  blaze ;  and  Ho-ti  himself,  which 
was  the  more  remarkable,  instead  of  chastising  his  son, 
seemed  to  grow  more  indulgent  to  him  than  ever.  At 
length  they  were  watched,  the  terrible  mystery  discovered, 
and  father  and  son  summoned  to  take  their  trial  at  Pekin, 
then  an  inconsiderable  assize  town.  Evidence  was  given, 
the  obnoxious  food  itself  produced  in  court,  and  verdict 
about  to  be  pronounced,  when  the  foreman  of  the  jury 
begged  that  some  of  the  burnt  pig,  of  which  the  culprits 
stood  accused,  might  be  handed  into  the  box.  He  han- 
dled it,  and  they  all  handled  it ;  and  burning  their  fingers, 
as  Bo-bo  and  his  father  had  done  before  them,  and  nature 
prompting  to  each  of  them  the  same  remedy,  against 
the  face  of  all  the*  facts,  and  the  clearest  charge  which 
judge  had  ever  given,  —  to  the  surprise  of  the  whole  court, 
townsfolks,  strangers,  reporters,  and  all  present, —  without 
leaving  the  box,  or  any  manner  of  consultation  whatever, 
they  brought  in  a  simultaneous  verdict  of  Not  Guilty. 

The  judge,  who  was  a  shrewd  fellow,  winked  at  the 
manifest  iniquity  of  the  decision  ;  and  when  the  court  was 
dismissed,  went  privily,  and  bought  up  all  the  pigs  that 
could  be  had  for  love  or  money.  In  a  few  days  his  Lord- 
ship's town-house  was  observed  to  be  on  fire.  The  thing 
took  wing,  and  now  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen  but  fire 
in  every  direction.  Fuel  and  pigs  grew  enormously  dear 
all  over  the  district.  The  insurance  offices  one  and  all 
shut  up  shop.  People  built  slighter  and  slighter  every 


A  DISSERTATION  UPON  ROAST  PIG.  207 

day,  until  it  was  feared  that  the  very  science  of  architec- 
ture would  iii  no  long  time  be  lost  to  the  world.  Thus 
this  custom  of  firing  houses  continued,  till  in  process  of 
time,  says  my  manuscript,  a  sage  arose,  like  our  Locke, 
who  made  a  discovery,  that  the  flesh  of  swine,  or  indeed 
of  any  other  animal,  might  be  cooked  (burnt,  as  they 
called  it)  without  the  necessity  of  consuming  a  whole 
house  to  dress  it.  Then  first  began  the  rude  form  of  a 
gridiron.  Roasting  by  the  string  or  spit  came  in  a  cen- 
tury or  two  later ;  I  forget  in  whose  dynasty.  By  such 
slow  degrees,  concludes  the  manuscript,  do  the  most  use- 
ful, and  seemingly  the  most  obvious  arts  make  their  way 
among  mankind. 

Without  placing  too  implicit  faith  in  the  account  above 
given,  it  must  be  agreed,  that  if  a  worthy  pretext  for  so 
dangerous  an  experiment  as  setting  houses  on  fire  (especially 
in  these  days)  could  be  assigned  in  favor  of  any  culinary 
object,  that  pretext  and  excuse  might  be  found  in  ROAST 
PIG. 

Of  all  the  delicacies  in  the  whole  mundus  edibilis,  I  will 
maintain  it  to  be  the  most  delicate — princeps  obsoniorum. 

I  speak  not  of  your  grown  porkers  —  things  between  pig 
and  pork  —  those  hobbydehoys  —  but  a  young  and  tender 
suckling  —  under  a  moon  old  —  guiltless  as  yet  of  the 
sty  —  with  no  original  speck  of  the  amor  immunditice,  the 
hereditary  failing  of  the  first  parent,  yet  manifest  —  his 
voice  as  yet  not  broken,  but  something  between  a  childish 
treble  and  a  grumble  —  the  mild  forerunner,  or  prcdudium 
of  a  grunt. 

He  must  be  roasted.  I  am  not  ignorant  that  our  ances- 
tors ate  them  seethed,  or  boiled,  —  but  what  a  sacrifice  of 
the  exterior  tegument ! 

There  is  no  flavor  comparable,  I  will  contend,  to  that  of 
the  crisp,  tawny,  well-watched,  not  over-roasted,  crackling, 
as  it  is  well  called, — the  very  teeth  are  invited  to  their 


208  CHARLES  LAMB. 

share  of  the  pleasure  at  this  banquet  in  overcoming  the 
coy,  brittle  resistance,  —  with  the  adhesive  oleaginous  — 
O  call  it  not  fat !  but  an  indefinable  sweetness  growing 
up  to  it,  —  the  tender  blossoming  of  fat  —  fat  cropped  in 
the  bud  —  taken  in  the  shoot  —  in  the  first  innocence  — 
the  cream  and  quintessence  of  the  child-pig's  yet  pure 

food, the  lean,  no  lean,  but  a  kind  of  animal  manna,  — 

or,  rather,  fat  and  lean  (if  it  must  be  so)  so  blended  and 
running  into  each  other,  that  both  together  make  but  one 
ambrosian  result,  or  common  substance. 

Behold  him,  while  he  is  "  doing  " —  it  seemeth  rather  a 
refreshing  warmth,  than  a  scorching  heat,  that  he  is  so 
passive  to.  How  equably  he  twirleth  round  the  string ! 
Now  he  is  just  done.  To  see  the  extreme  sensibility  of 
that  tender  age !  he  hath  wept  out  his  pretty  eyes  —  radi- 
ant jellies  —  shooting  stars. 

See  him  m  the  dish,  his  second  cradle,  how  meek  he 
lieth  !  —  wouldst  thou  have  had  this  innocent  grow  up  to 
the  grossness  and  indocility  which  too  often  accompany 
maturer  swinehood  ?  Ten  to  one  he  would  have  proved  a 
glutton,  a  sloven,  an  obstinate,  disagreeable  animal  — 
wallowing  in  all  manner  of  filthy  conversation,  —  from 
these  sins  he  is  happily  snatched  away,  — 

Ere  sin  could  blight  or  sorrow  fade, 
Death  came  with  timely  care  — 

his  memory  is  odoriferous,  —  no  clown  curseth,  while  his 
stomach  half  rejecteth,  the  rank  bacon, — no  coal-heaver 
bolteth  him  in  reeking  sausages,  — he  hath  a  fair  sepulchre 
in  the  grateful  stomach  of  the  judicious  epicure,  —  and  for 
such  a  tomb  might  be  content  to  die. 

He  is  the  best  of  sapors.  Pineapple  is  great.  She  is 
indeed  almost  too  transcendent  —  a  delight,  if  not  sinful, 
yet  so  like  to  sinning  that  really  a  tender  conscienced  per- 
son would  do  well  to  pause  — too  ravishing  for  mortal  taste, 


A  DISSERTATION  UPON  ROAST  PIG.  209 

she  woundeth  and  excoriateth  the  lips  that  approach  her  — 
like  lovers'  kisses,  she  biteth  —  she  is  a  pleasure  bordering 
on  pain  from  the  fierceness  and  insanity  of  her  relish  — 
but  she  stoppeth  at  the  palate  —  she  meddleth  not  with  the 
appetite  —  and  the  coarsest  hunger  might  barter  her  con- 
sistently for  a  mutton  chop. 

Pig  —  let  me  speak  his  praise  —  is  no  less  provocative 
of  the  appetite,  than  he  is  satisfactory  to  the  criticalness  of 
the  censorious  palate.  The  strong  man  may  batten  on  him, 
and  the  weakling  refuseth  not  his  mild  juices. 

Unlike  to  mankind's  mixed  characters,  a  bundle  of  virtues 
and  vices,  inexplicably  intertwisted,  and  not  to  be  un- 
ravelled without  hazard,  he  is  —  good  throughout.  No 
part  of  him  is  better  or  worse  than  another.  He  helpeth, 
as  far  as  his  little  means  extend,  all  around.  He  is  the 
least  envious  of  banquets.  He  is  all  neighbor's  fare. 

I  am  one  of  those,  who  freely  and  ungrudgingly  impart 
a  share  of  the  good  things  of  this  life  which  fall  to  their 
lot,  (few  as  mine  are  in  this  kind)  to  a  friend.  I  protest 
I  take  as  great  an  interest  in  my  friend's  pleasures,  his 
relishes,  and  proper  satisfactions,  as  in  mine  own.  **  Pres- 
sents,"  I  often  say,  "  endear  Absents."  Hares,  pheasants, 
partridges,  snipes,  barn-door  chickens,  (those  "  tame  vil- 
latic  fowl,")  capons,  plovers,  brawn,  barrels  of  oysters,  I 
dispense  as  freely  as  I  receive  them.  I  love  to  taste  them, 
as  it  were,  upon  the  tongue  of  my  friend.  But  a  stop 
must  be  put  somewhere.  One  wouid  not,  like  Lear,  "give 
everything."  I  make  my  stand  upon  pig  Methinks  it  is 
an  ingratitude  to  the  Giver  of  all  good  flavors,  to  extra- 
domiciliate,  or  send  out  of  the  house,  slightingly,  (under 
pretext  of  friendship,  or  I  know  not  what.)  a  blessing  so 
particularly  adapted,  predestined,  I  may  say,  to  my  indi- 
vidual palate  —  It  argues  an  insensibility. 

I  remember  a  touch  of  conscience  in  this  kind  at  school. 
My  good  old  aunt,  who  never  parted  from  me  at  the  end 
14 


210  CHARLES  LAMB. 

of  a  holiday  without  stuffing  a  sweetmeat,  or  some  nice 
thing,  into  my  pocket,  had  dismissed  me  one  evening  with 
a  smoking  plum-cake  fresh  from  the  oven.  In  my  way  to 
school  (it  was  over  London  bridge)  a  grayheaded  old  beg- 
gar saluted  me  (I  have  no  doubt,  at  this  time  of  day.  that 
he  was  a  counterfeit.)  i  had  no  pence  to  console  him  with, 
and  in  the  vanity  of  self-denial,  and  the  very  coxcombry  of 
charity,  schoolboy-like,  I  made  him  a  present  of  —  the 
whole  cake  !  I  walked  on  a  little,  buoyed  up,  as  one  is  on 
such  occasions,  with  a  sweet  soothing  of  self-satisfaction; 
but  before  I  had  got  to  the  end  of  the  bridge,  my  better 
feelings  returned,  and  I  burst  into  tears,  thinking  how 
ungrateful  I  had  been  to  my  good  aunt,  to  go  and  give  her 
good  gift  away  to  a  stranger  that  I  had  never  seen  before, 
and  who  might  be  a  bad  man  for  aught  I  knew ;  and  then 
I  thought  of  the  pleasure  my  aunt  would  be  taking  in 
thinking  that  I  —  I  myself,  and  not  another  —  would  eat 
her  nice  cake,  —  and  what  should  I  say  to  her  the  next 
time  I  saw  her,  —  how  naughty  I  was  to  part  with  her 
pretty  present!  —  and  the  odor  of  that  spicy  cake  came 
back  upon  my  recollection,  and  the  pleasure  and  the  curi- 
osity I  had  taken  in  seeing  her  make  it,  and  her  joy  when 
she  sent  it  to  the  oven,  and  how  disappointed  she  would 
feel  that  I  had  never  had  a  bit  of  it  in  my  mouth  at  last, — 
and  I  blamed  my  impertinent  spirit  of  alms-giving,  and  out- 
of-place  hypocrisy  of  goodness ;  and  above  all  I  wished 
never  to  see  the  face  again  of  that  insidious,  good-for- 
nothing,  old  gray  impostor. 

Our  ancestors  were  nice  in  their  method  of  sacrificing 
these  tender  victims.  We  read  of  pigs  whipt  to  death  with 
something  of  a  shock,  as  we  hear  of  any  other  obsolete 
custom.  The  age  of  cli.-cipline  is  gone  by,  or  it  would  be 
curious  to  inquire  (in  a  philosophical  light  merely)  what 
effect  this  process  might  have  towards  intenerating  and 
dulcifying  a  substance,  naturally  so  mild  and  dulcet  as  the 


A  DISSERTATION  UPON  ROAST  PIG.  211 

flesh  of  young  pigs.  It  looks  like  refining  a  violet.  Yet 
we  should  be  cautious,  while  we  condemn  the  inhumanity, 
how  we  censure  the  wisdom  of  the  practice.  It  might 
impart  a  gusto. 

I  remember  an  hypothesis,  argued  upon  by  the  youiig 
students,  when  I  was  at  St.  Omer's,  and  maintained  with 
much  learning  and  pleasantry  on  both  sides,  "  Whether, 
supposing  that  the  flavor  of  a  pig  who  obtained  his  death 
by  whipping  (per  flagellationem  extremam),  superadded  a 
pleasure  upon  the  palate  of  a  man  more  intense  than  any 
possible  suffering  we  can  conceive  in  the  animal,  is  man 
justified  in  using  that  method  of  putting  the  animal  to 
death  ?  "  I  forget  the  decision. 

His  sauce  should  be  considered.  Decidedly,  a  few 
bread-crumbs,  done  up  with  his  liver  and  brains,  and  a  dash 
of  mild  sage.  But  banish,  dear  Mrs.  Cook,  I  beseech 
you,  the  whole  onion  tribe.  Barbecue  your  whole  hogs  to 
your  palate,  steep  them  in  shalots,  stuff  them  out  with 
plantations  of  the  rank  and  guilty  garlic;  you  cannot 
poison  them,  or  make  them  stronger  than  they  are,  —  but 
consider,  he  is  a  weakling  —  a  flower. 


ALL'S   WELL. 


BY  D.  A.  WASSON. 

SWEET- VOICED  Hope,  thy  fine  discourse 
Foretold  not  half  life's  good  to  me ; 
Thy  painter,  Fancy,  hath  not  force 
To  show  how  sweet  it  is  to  be ! 
Thy  witching  dream 
And  pictured  scheme 
To  match  the  fact  still  want  the  power ; 
Thy  promise  brave 
From  birth  to  grave 
Life's  bloom  may  beggar  in  an  hour. 

Ask  and  receive,  —  't  is  sweetly  said ; 
Yet  what  to  plead  for  know  I  not ; 
For  Wish  is  worsted,  Hope  o'ersped, 
And  aye  to  thanks  returns  my  thought 

If  I  would  pray, 

I  've  naught  to  say 
But  this,  that  God  may  be  God  still, 

For  Him  to  live 

Is  still  to  give, 
And  sweeter  than  my  wish  his  will. 

O  wealth  of  life  beyond  all  bound ! 
Eternity  each  moment  given ! 


ALL  'S  WELL.  213 

What  plummet  may  the  Present  sound? 
Who  promises  &  future  heaven? 

Or  glad,  or  grieved, 

Oppressed,  relieved, 
In  blackest  night,  or  brightest  day, 

Still  pours  the  flood 

Of  golden  good, 
And  more  than  heartfull  fills  me  aye. 

My  wealth  is  common ;  I  possess 

No  petty  province,  but  the  whole ; 
What 's  mine  alone  is  mine  far  less 
Than  treasure  shared  by  every  souL 

Talk  not  of  store, 

Millions  or  more,  — 
Of  values  which  the  purse  may  hold,  — 

But  this  divine ! 

I  own  the  mine 
Whose  grains  outweigh  a  planet's  gold. 

I  have  a  stake  in  every  star, 

In  every  beam  that  fills  the  day ; 
AH  hearts  of  men  my  coffers  are, 
My  ores  arterial  tides  convey ; 

The  fields,  the  skies, 

And  sweet  replies 
Of  thought  to  thought  are  my  gold-dust,  — 

The  oaks,  the  brooks, 

And  speaking  looks 
Of  lovers'  faith  and  friendship's  trust. 

Life's  youngest  tides  joy-brimming  flow 

For  him  who  lives  above  all  years, 
Who  all-immortal  makes  the  Now, 

And  is  not  ta'en  in  Time's  arrears, 


214  D.  A.  WASSON. 

His  life's  a  hymn 

The  seraphim 
Might  hark  to  hear  or  help  to  sing, 

And  to  his  soul 

The  boundless  whole 
Its  bounty  all  doth  daily  bring. 

u  All  mine  is  thine,"  the  sky-soul  saith ; 
"  The  wealth  I  am,  must  thou  become 
Richer  and  richer,  breath  by  breath,  — 
Immortal  gain,  immortal  room ! " 

And  since  all  his 

Mine  also  is, 
Life's  gift  outruns  my  fancies  far, 

And  drowns  the  dream 

In  larger  stream, 
As  morning  drinks  the  morning-star. 


CARLAVERO'S   BOTTLE 

t 

BY  CHAKLES  DICKENS. 


THE  rising  of  the  Italian  people  from  under  their  unut- 
terable wrongs,  and  the  tardy  burst  of  day  upon  them 
after  the  long,  long  night  of  oppression  that  has  darkened 
their  beautiful  country,  has  naturally  caused  my  mind  to 
dwell  often  of  late  on  my  own  small  wanderings  in  Italy. 
Connected  with  them  is  a  curious  little  drama,  in  which  the 
character  I  myself  sustained  was  so  very  subordinate,  that  I 
may  relate  its  story  without  any  fear  of  being  suspected  of 
self-display.  It  is  strictly  a  true  story. 

I  am  newly  arrived  one  summer  evening,  in  a  certain 
small  town  on  the  Mediterranean.  I  have  had  my  dinner 
at  the  inn,  and  I  and  the  mosquitoes  are  coming  out  into  the 
streets  together.  It  is  far  from  Naples  ;  but  a  bright  brown 
plump  little  woman-servant  at  the  inn  is  a  Neapolitan,  and 
is  so  vivaciously  expert  in  pantomimic  action,  that  in  the 
single  moment  of  answering  my  request  to  have  a  pair 
of  shoes  cleaned  which  I  left  up-stairs,  she  plies  imaginary 
brushes,  and  goes  completely  through  the  motions  of  polish- 
ing the  shoes  up,  and  laying  them  at  my  feet.  I  smile  at  the 
brisk  little  woman  in  perfect  satisfaction  with  her  briskness ; 
and  the  brisk  little  woman,  amiably  pleased  with  me  be- 
cause I  am  pleased  with  her,  claps  her  hands  and  laughs 
delightfully.  We  are  in  the  inn  yard.  As  the  little 
woman's  bright  eyes  sparkle  on  the  cigarette  I  am  smoking 


210  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

I  make  bold  to  offer  her  one ;  she  accepts  it  none  the  less 
merrily  because  I  touch  a  most  charming  little  dimple  in 
her  fat  cheek  with  its  light  paper  end.  Glancing  up  at  the 
many  green  lattices,  to  assure  herself  that  the  mistress  is  not 
looking  on,  the  little  woman  then  puts  her  two  little  dimpled 
arms  akimbo,  and  stands  on  tiptoe  to  light  her  cigarette  at 
mine.  "And  now,  dear  little  sir,"  says  she,  puffing  out 
smoke  in  a  most  innocent  and  cherubic  manner,^'  keep  quite 
straight  on,  take  the  first  to  the  right,  and  probably  you  will 
see  him  standing  at  his  door." 

I  have  a  commission  to  "  him."  and  I  have  been  inquiring 
about  him.  I  have  carried  the  commission  about  Italy  sev- 
eral months.  Before  I  left  England,  there  came  to  me  one 
night  a  certain  generous  and  gentle  English  nobleman,  —  he 
is  dead  in  these  days  when  I  relate  the  story,  and  exiles 
have  lost  their  best  British  friend,  —  with  this  request : 
"  Whenever  you  come  to  such  a  town,  will  you  seek  out  one 
Giovanni  Carlavero,  who  keeps  a  little  wine-shop  there. 
Mention  my  name  to  him  suddenly,  and  observe  how  it 
affects  him  ?  "  I  accepted  the  trust,  and  am  on  my  way  to 
discharge  it. 

The  sirocco  has  been  blowing  all  day,  and  it  is  a  hot,  un- 
wholesome evening,  with  no  cool  sea-breeze.  Mosquitoes 
and  fireflies  are  lively  enough,  but  most  other  creatures  are 
faint.  The  coquettish  airs  of  pretty  young  women  in  the 
tiniest  and  wickedest  of  dolls'  straw  hats,  who  lean  out  at 
open  lattice  blinds,  are  almost  the  only  airs  stirring.  Very 
ugly  and  haggard  old  women  with  distaffs,  and  with  a  gray 
tow  upon  them  that  looks  as  if  they  were  spinning  out  their 
own  hair,  (I  suppose  they  were  once  pretty,  too,  but  it  is 
very  difficult  to  believe  so,)  sit  on  the  footway  leaning 
against  house-walls.  Everybody  who  has  come  for  water 
to  the  fountain  stays  there,  and  seems  incapable  of  any  such 
energetic  idea  as  going  home.  Vespers  are  over,  though 
not  so  long  but  that  I  can  smell  the  heavy  resinous  incense 


CARLAVEEO'S  BOTTLE.  217 

as  I  pass  the  church.  Xo  man  seems  to  be  af  work,  save 
the  coppersmith.  In  an  Italian  town  he  is  always  at  work, 
and  always  thumping  in  the  deadliest  manner. 

I  keep  straight  on,  and  come  in  due  time  to  the  first  on 
the  right :  a  narrow,  dull  street,  where  I  see  a  well-favored 
man  of  good  stature  and  military  bearing,  in  a  great  cloak, 
standing  at  a  door.  Drawing  nearer  to  this  threshold,  I  see 
it  is  the  threshold  of  a  small  wine-shop  ;  and  I  can  just  make 
out,  in  the  dim  light,  the  inscription  that  it  is  kept  by  Gio- 
s-anni  Carlavero. 

I  touch  my  hat  to  the  figure  in  the  cloak,  and  pass  in,  and 
draw  a  stool  to  a  little  table.  The  lamp  (just  such  another 
as  they  dig  out  of  Pompeii)  is  lighted,  but  the  place  is  emp- 
ty. The  figure  in  the  cloak  has  followed  me  in,  and  stands 
before  me. 

"  The  master  ?  " 

"  At  your  service,  sir." 

"  PJease  to  give  me  a  glass  of  the  wine  of  the  country." 

He  turns  to  a  little  counter,  to  get  it.  As  his  striking 
face  is  pale,  and  his  action  is  evidently  that  of  an  enfeebled 
man,  I  remark  that  I  fear  he  has  been  ill.  It  is  not  much, 
he  courteously  and  gravely  answers,  though  bad  while  it 
lasts :  the  fever. 

As  he  sets  the  wine  on  the  little  table,  to  his  manifest 
surprise  I  lay  my  hand  on  the  back  of  his,  look  him  in  the 
face,  and  say  in  a  low  voice :  "  I  am  an  Englishman,  and 
you  are  acquainted  with  a  friend  .of  mine.  Do  you  recol- 
lect   ?  "  and  I  mention  the  name  of  my  generous  coun- 
tryman. 

Instantly  he  utters  a  loud  cry,  bursts  into  tears,  and  falls 
on  his  knees  at  my  feet,  clasping  my  legs  in  both  his  arms 
and  bowing  his  head  to  the  ground. 

Some  years  ago,  this  man  at  my  feet,  whose  overfraught 
heart  is  heaving  as  if  it  would  burst  from  his  breast,  and 
whose  tears  are  wet  upon  the  dress  I  wear,  was  a  galley- 


218  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

slave  in  the  North  of  Italy.  He  was  a  political  offender, 
having  been  concerned  in  the  then  last  rising,  and  was  sen- 
tenced to  imprisonment  for  life.  That  he  would  have  died 
in  his  chains  is  certain,  but  for  the  circumstance  that  the 
Englishman  happened  to  visit  his  prison. 

It  was  one  of  the  vile  old  prisons  of  Italy,  and  a  part  of 
it  was  below  the  .waters  of  the  harbor.  The  place  of  his 
confinement  was  an  arched  underground  and  under-water 
gallery,  with  a  grill-gate  at  the  entrance,  through  which  it 
received  such  light  and  air  as  it  got.  Its  condition  was 
insufferably  foul,  and  a  stranger  could  hardly  breathe  in  it, 
or  see  in  it  with  the  aid  of  a  torch.  At  the  upper  end  of 
this  dungeon,  and  consequently  in  the  worst  position,  as 
being  the  farthest  removed  from  h'ght  and  air,  the  English- 
man first  beheld  him,  sitting  on  an  iron  bedstead,  to  which 
he  was  chained  by  a  heavy  chain.  His  countenance  im- 
pressed the  Englishman  as  having  nothing  in  common  with 
the  faces  of  the  malefactors  with  whom  he  was  associated, 
and  he  talked  with  him,  and  learned  how  he  came  to  be 
there. 

When  the  Englishman  emerged  from  the  dreadful  den 
into  the  light  of  day,  he  asked  his  conductor,  the  governor 
of  the  jail,  why  Giovanni  Carlavero  was  put  into  the  worst 
place. 

"  Because  he  is  particularly  recommended,"  was  the  strin- 
gent answer. 

"  Recommended,  that  is  to  say,  for  death  ?  " 

"  Excuse  me ;  particularly  recommended,"  was  again  the 
answer. 

"  He  has  a  bad  tumor  in  his  neck,  no  doubt  occasioned  by 
the  hardship  of  his  miserable  life.  If  it  continues  to  be  neg- 
lected, and  he  remains  where  he  is,  it  will  kill  him." 

"  Excuse  me,  I  can  do  nothing.  He  is  particularly  rec- 
ommended." 

The  Englishman  was  staying  in  that  town,  and  he  went 


CARLAVERO'S  BOTTLE  219 

to  his  home  there  ;  but  the  figure  of  this  man  chained  to  the 
bedstead  made  it  no  home,  and  destroyed  his  rest  and  peace. 
He  was  an  Englishman  of  an  extraordinarily  tender  heart, 
and  he  could  not  bear  the  picture.  He  went  back  to  the 
prison  gate  :  went  back  again  and  again,  and  talked  to  the 
man  and  cheered  him.  He  used  his  utmost  influence  to  get 
the  man  unchained  from  the  bedstead,  were  it  only  for  ever 
&o  short  a  time  in  the  day,  and  permitted  to  come  to  the 
grate.  It  took  a  long  time,  but  the  Englishman's  station, 
personal  character,  and  steadiness  of  purpose  wore  out  oppo- 
sition so  far,  and  that  grace  was  at  last  accorded.  Through 
the  bars,  when  he  could  thus  get  light  upon  the  tumor,  the 
Englishman  lanced  it,  and  it  did  well,  and  healed.  His 
strong  interest  in  the  prisoner  had  greatly  increased  by  this 
time,  and  he  formed  the  desperate  resolution  that  he  would 
exert  his  utmost  self-devotion  and  use  his  utmost  efforts  to 
get  Carlavero  pardoned. 

If  the  prisoner  had  been  a  brigand  and  a  murderer,  if  he 
had  committed  every  non-political  crime  in  the  Newgate 
Calendar  and  out  of  it,  nothing  would  have  been  easier  than 
for  a  man  of  any  court  or  priestly  influence  to  obtain  his  re- 
lease. As  it  was,  nothing  could  have  been  more  difficult. 
Italian  authorities,  and  English  authorities  who  had  interest 
with  them,  alike  assured  the  Englishman  that  his  object  was 
hopeless.  He  met  with  nothing  but  evasion,  refusal,  and 
ridicule.  His  political  prisoner  became  a  joke  in  the  place. 
It  was  especially  observable  that  English  Circumlocution, 
and  English  Society  on  its  travels,  were  as  humorous  on  the 
subject  as  Circumlocution  and  Society  may  be  on  any  subject 
without  loss  of  caste.  But  the  Englishman  possessed  (and 
proved  it  well  in  his  life)  a  courage  very  uncommon  among 
us  ;  he  had  not  the  least  fear  of  being  considered  a  bore,  in 
.a  good,  humane  cause.  So  he  went  on  persistently  trying, 
and  trying,  and  trying  to  get  Giovanni  Carlavero  out. 
That  prisoner  had  been  rigorously  rechained,  after  the  tumor 


220  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

operation,  and  it  was  not  likely  that  his  miserable  life  could 
last  very  long. 

One  day,  when  all  the  town  knew  about  the  Englishman 
and  his  political  prisoner,  there  came  to  the  Englishman  a 
certain  sprightly  Italian  advocate  of  whom  he  had  some 
knowledge  ;  and  he  made  this  strange  proposal :  "  Give  me 
a  hundred  pounds  to  obtain  Carlavero's  release.  I  think  I 
can  get  him  a  pardon  with  that  money.  But  I  cannot  tell 
you  what  I  am  going  to  do  with  the  money,  nor  must  you 
ever  ask  me  the  question  if  I  succeed,  nor  must  you  ever 
ask  me  for  an  account  of  the  money  if  I  fail."  The  English- 
man decided  to  hazard  the  hundred  pounds.  He  did  so,  and 
heard  not  another  word  of  the  matter.  For  half  a  year  and 
more  the  advocate  made  no  sign,  and  never  once  "took 
on"  in  any  way  to  have  the  subject  on  his  mind.  The 
Englishman  was  then  obliged  to  change  his  residence  to 
another  and  more  famous  town  in  the  North  of  Italy.  He 
parted  from  the  poor  prisoner  with  a  sorrowful  heart,  as 
from  a  doomed  man  for  whom  there  was  no  release  but 
Death. 

The  Englishman  lived  in  his  new  place  of  abode  another 
half-year  or  more,  and  had  no  tidings  of  the  wretched  pris- 
oner. At  length,  one  day,  he  received  from  the  advocate  a 
cool,  concise,  mysterious  note,  to  this  effect.  "  If  you  still 
wish  to  bestow  that  benefit  upon  the  man  in  whom  you  were 
once  interested,  send  me  fifty  pounds  more,  and  I  think  it 
can  be  insured."  Now,  the  Englishman  had  long  settled  in 
his  mind  that  the  advocate  was  a  heartless  sharper,  who 
had  preyed  upon  his  credulity  and  his  interest  hi  an  unfor- 
tunate sufferer.  So  he  sat  down  and  wrote  a  dry  answer, 
giving  the  advocate  to  understand  that  he  was  wiser  now 
than  he  had  been  formerly,  and  that  no  more  money  was 
extractable  from  his  pocket. 

He  lived  outside  the  city  gates,  some  mile  or  two  from  the 
post-office,  and  was  accustomed  to  walk  into  the  city  with 


CARLAVERO'S  BOTTLE.  221 

hit>  letters  and  post  them  himself.  On  a  lovely  spring  day, 
when  the  sky  was  exquisitely  blue,  and  the  sea  divinely 
beautiful,  he  took  his  usual  walk,  carrying  this  letter  to  the 
advocate  in  his  pocket.  As  he  went  along,  his  gentle  heart 
was  much  moved  by  the  loveliness  of  the  prospect,  and  by 
the  thought  of  the  slowly-dying  prisoner  chained  to  the  bed- 
stead, for  whom  the  universe  had  no  delights.  As  he  drew 
nearer  and  nearer  to  the  city  where  he  was  to  post  the  let- 
ter, he  became  veiy  uneasy  in  his  mind.  He  debated  witli 
himself,  was  it  remotely  possible,  after  all,  that  this  sum  of 
fifty  pounds  could  restore  the  fellow-creature  whom  he  pitied 
so  much,  and  for  whom  he  had  striven  so  hard,  to  liberty  ? 
He  was  not  a  conventionally  rich  Englishman,  —  very  far 
from  that,  —  but  he  had  a  spare  fifty  pounds  at  the  banker's. 

He  resolved  to  risk  it.  Without  doubt,  GOD  has  recom- 
pensed him  for  the  resolution. 

He  went  to  the  banker's,  and  got  a  bill  for  the  amount, 
and  enclosed  it  in  a  letter  to  the  advocate  that  I  wish  I 
could  have  seen.  He  simply  told  the  advocate  that  he  was 
quite  a  poor  man,  and  that  he  was  sensible  it  might  be  a 
great  weakness  in  him  to  part  with  so  much  money  on  the 
faith  of  so  vague  a  communication ;  but  that  there  it  was, 
and  that  he  prayed  the  advocate  to  make  a  good  use  of  it. 
If  he  did  otherwise,  no  good  could  ever  come  of  it,  and  it 
would  lie  heavy  on  his  soul  one  day. 

"Within  a  week,  the  Englishman  was  sitting  at  his  break- 
fast, when  he  heard  some  suppressed  sounds  of  agitation  on 
the  staircase,  and  Giovanni  Carlavero  leaped  into  his  room 
and  fell  upon  his  breast,  a  free  man  ! 

Conscious  of  having  wronged  the  advocate  in  his  own 
thoughts,  the  Englishman  wrote  him  an  earnest  and  grateful 
letter,  avowing  the  fact,  and  entreating  him  to  confide  by 
what  means  and  through  what  agency  he  had  succeeded  so 
well.  The  advocate  returned  for  answer  through  the  post  : 
"There  are  many  things,  as  you  know,  in  this  Italv  of 


222  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

ours  thai  are  safest  and  best  not  even  spoken  of,  —  far  less 
written  of.  We  may  meet  some  day,  and  then  I  may  tell 
you  what  you  want  to  know  ;  not  here,  and  now."  But  the 
two  never  did  meet  again.  The  advocate  was  dead  wheu 
the  Englishman  gave  me  my  trust ;  and  how  the  man  had 
been  set  free  remained  as  great  a  mystery  to  the  English- 
man, and  to  the  man  himself,  as  it  was  to  me. 

But  I  knew  this :  here  was  the  man,  this  sultry  night, 
on  his  knees  at  my  feet,  because  I  was  the  Englishman's 
friend ;  here  were  his  tears  upon  my  dress ;  here  were  his 
sobs,  choking  his  utterance  ;  here  were  his  kisses  on  my 
hands,  because  they  had  touched  the  hands  that  had  worked 
out  his  release.  He  had  no  need  to  tell  me  it  would  be  hap- 
piness to  him  to  die  for  his  benefactor  :  I  doubt  if  I  ever  saw 
real,  sterling,  fervent  gratitude  of  soul  before  or  since. 

He  was  much  watched  and  suspected,  he  said,  and  had 
had  enough  to  do  to  keep  himself  out  of  trouble.  This,  and 
his  not  having  prospered  in  his  worldly  affairs,  had  led  to 
his  having  failed  in  his  usual  communications  to  the  English- 
man for  —  as  I  now  remember  the  period  —  some  two  or 
three  years.  But  his  prospects  were  brighter,  and  his  wife, 
who  had  been  very  ill,  had  recovered,  and  his  fever  had  left 
him,  and  he  had  bought  a  little  vineyard,  and  would  I  carry 
to  his  benefactor  the  first  of  its  wine  ?  Ay,  that  I  would  (I 
told  him  with  enthusiasm),  and  not  a  drop  of  it  should  be 
spilled  or  lost ! 

He  had  cautiously  closed  the  door  before  speaking  of  him- 
self, and  had  talked  with  such  excess  of  emotion,  and  in  a 
provincial  Italian  so  difficult  to  understand,  that  I  had  more 
than  once  been  obliged  to  stop  him,  and  beg  him  to  have 
compassion  on  me  and  be  slower  and  calmer.  By  degrees 
he  became  so,  and  tranquilly  walked  back  with  me  to  the 
hotel.  There  I  sat  down  before  I  went  to  bed  and  wrote  a 
faithful  account  of  him  to  the  Englishman :  which  I  con- 
cluded by  saying  that  I  would  bring  the  wine  home,  against 
any  difficulties,  every  drop. 


CARLAVERO'S  BOTTLE.  223 

Early  next  morning,  when  I  came  out  at  the  hotel  door  to 
pursue  my  journey,  I  found  my  friend  waiting  with  one  of 
those  immense  bottles  in  which  the  Italian  peasants  store 
their  wine,  —  a  bottle  holding  some  half-dozen  gallons, — 
bound  round  with  basket-work  for  greater  safety  on  the  jour- 
ney. I  see  him  now,  in  the  bright  sunlight,  tears  of  grati- 
tude in  his  eyes,  proudly  inviting  my  attention  to  this 
corpulent  bottle.  (At  the  street  corner  hard  by,  two  high- 
flavored,  able-bodied  monks,  —  pretending  to  talk  together, 
but  keeping  their  four  evil,  eyes  upon  us.) 

How  the  bottle  had  been  got  there  did  not  appear ;  but 
the  difficulty  of  getting  it  into  the  ramshackle  vetturino  car- 
riage in  which  I  was  departing  was  so  great,  and  it  took  up 
so  much  room  when  it  was  got  in,  that  I  elected  to  sit  out- 
side. The  last  I  saw  of  Giovanni  Carlavero  was  his  running 
through  the  town  by  the  side  of  the  jingling  wheels,  clasping 
my  hand  as  I  stretched  it  down  from  the  box,  charging  me 
with  a  thousand  last  loving  and  dutiful  messages  to  his  dear 
patron,  and  finally  looking  in  at  the  bottle  as  it  reposed 
inside,  with  an  admiration  of  its  honorable  way  of  travelling 
that  was  beyond  measure  delightful. 

And  now,  what  disquiet  of  mind  this  dearly-beloved  and 
highly-treasured  Bottle  began  to  cost  me  no  man  knows. 
It  was  my  precious  charge  through  a  long  tour,  and  for  hun- 
dreds of  miles  I  never  had  it  off  my  mind  by  day  or  by 
night.  Over  bad  roads,  —  and  they  were  many,  —  I  clung 
to  it  with  affectionate  desperation.  Up  mountains,  I  looked 
in  at  it  and  saw  it  helplessly  tilting  over  on  its  back,  with 
terror.  At  innumerable  inn  doors,  when  the  weather  was 
bad,  I  was  obliged  to  be  put  into  my  vehicle  before  the  Bot- 
tle could  be  got  in,  and  was  obliged  to  have  the  Bottle  lifted 
out  before  human  aid  could  come  near  me.  The  Imp  of  the 
same  name,  except  that  his  associations  were  all.  evil  and 
these  associations  were  all  good,  would  have  been  a  les» 
troublesome  travel]  ing-companion.  I  might  have  served 


224  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

Mr.  Cruikshank  as  a  subject  for  a  new  illustration  of  tho 
miseries  of  the  Bottle.  The  National  Temperance  Society 
might  have  made  a  powerful  Tract  of  me. 

The  suspicions  that  attached  to  this  innocent  Bottle  great- 
ly aggravated  my  difficulties.  It  was  like  the  apple-pie  in 
the  child's  book.  Parma  pouted  at  it,  Modena  mocked  it, 
Tuscany  tackled  it,  Naples  nibbled  it,  Rome  refused  it,  Aus- 
tria accused  it,  Soldiers  suspected  it,  Jesuits  jobbed  it.  I 
composed  a  neat  oration,  developing  my  inoffensive  inten- 
tions in  connection  with  this  Bottle,  and  delivered  it  in  an 
infinity  of  guard-houses,  at  a  multitude  of  town-gates,  and 
on  every  drawbridge,  angle,  and  rampart  of  a  complete  sys- 
tem of  fortifications.  Fifty  times  a  day  I  got  down  to  ha- 
rangue an  infuriated  soldiery  about  the  Bottle.  Through  the 
filthy  degradation  of  the  abject  and  vile  Roman  states  I  had 
as  much  difficulty  in  working  my  way  with  the  Bottle,  as  if 
it  had  bottled  up  a  complete  system  of  heretical  theology.  In 
the  Neapolitan  country,  where  everybody  was  a  spy,  a  sol- 
dier, a  priest,  or  a  lazzarone,  the  shameless  beggars  of  all 
four  denominations  incessantly  pounced  on  the  Bottle,  and 
made  it  a  pretext  for  extorting  money  from  me.  Quires  — 
quires  do  I  say  ?  —  reams  of  forms  illegibly  printed  on  whity- 
brown  paper  were  filled  up  about  the  Bottle,  and  it  was  the 
subject  of  more  stamping  and  sanding  than  I  had  ever  seen 
before.  In  consequence  of  which  haze  of  sand,  perhaps,  it 
was  always  irregular,  and  always  latent  with  dismal  penal- 
ties of  going  back,  or  not  going  forward,  which  were  only  to 
be  abated  by  the  silver  crossing  of  a  base  hand,  poked  shirt- 
less out  of  a  ragged  uniform  sleeve.  Under  all  discourage- 
ments, however,  I  stuck  to  my  Bottle,  and  held  firm  to  my 
resolution  that  every  drop  of  its  contents  should  reach  the 
Bottle's  destination. 

The  latter  refinement  cost  me  a  separate  heap  of  troubles 
on  its  own  separate  account.  What  corkscrews  did  I  see 
the  mih'tary  power  bring  out  against  that  Bottle  :  what  gini- 


CABLAVERO'S  BOTTLE.  225 

lets,  spikes,  divining-rods,  gauges,  and  unknown  tests  and 
instruments !  At  some  places  they  persisted  in  declaring 
that  the  wine  must  not  be  passed,  without  being  opened  and 
tasted ;  I,  pleading  to  the  contrary,  used  then  to  argue  the 
question  seated  on  the  Bottle,  lest  they  should  open  it  in 
spite  of  me.  In  the  southern  parts  of  Italy,  more  violent 
shrieking,  face-making,  and  gesticulating,  greater  vehemence 
of  speech  and  countenance  and  action,  went  on  about  that 
Bottle  than  would  attend  fifty  murders  in  a  northern  lati- 
tude. It  raised  important  functionaries  out  of  their  beds  in 
the  dead  of  night.  I  have  known  half  a  dozen  military  lan- 
terns to  disperse  themselves  at  all  points  of  a  great  sleeping 
piazza,  each  lantern  summoning  some  official  creature  to  get 
up,  put  on  his  cocked  hat  instantly,  and  come  and  stop  the 
Bottle.  It  was  characteristic,  that,  while  this  innocent  Bottle 
had  such  immense  difficulty  in  getting  from  little  town  to 
town,  Signor  Mazzini  and  the  fiery  cross  were  traversing 
Italy  from  end  to  end. 

Still  I  stuck  to  my  Bottle,  like  any  fine  old  English  gen- 
tleman all  of  the  olden  time.  The  more  the  Bottle  was  in- 
terfered with,  the  stancher  I  became  (if  possible)  in  my 
first  determination  that  my  countryman  should  have  it  deliv- 
ered to  him  intact,  as  the  man  whom  he  had  so  nobly  restored 
to  life  and  liberty  had  delivered  it  to  me.  If  ever  I  have 
been  obstinate  in  my  days,  —  and  I  may  have  been,  say, 
once  or  twice,  —  I  was  obstinate  about  the  Bottle.  But  I 
made  it  a  rule  always  to  keep  a  pocketful  of  small  coin  at 
its  service,  and  never  to  be  out  of  temper  in  its  cause. 
Thus  I  and  the  Bottle  made  our  way.  Once  we  had  a 
break-down  ;  rather  a  bad  break-down,  on  a  steep  high  place 
with  the  sea  below  us,  on  a  tempestuous  evening  when  it 
blew  great  guns.  We  were  driving  four  wild  horses  abreast, 
Southern  fashion,  and  there  was  some  little  difficulty  in  stop- 
ping them.  I  was  outside,  and  not  thrown  off;  but  no  words 
can  describe  my  feelings  when  I  saw  the  Bottle  —  travelling 
15 


226  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

inside,  as  usual  —  burst  the  door  open,  and  roll  obesely  out 
into  the  road.  A  blessed  Bottle  with  a  charmed  existence, 
he  took  no  hurt,  and  we  repaired  damage,  and  went  on 
triumphant. 

A  thousand  representations  were  made  to  me  that  the 
Bottle  must  be  left  at  this  place,  or  that,  and  allied  for 
again.  I  never  yielded  to  one  of  them,  and  never  parted 
from  the  Bottle,  on  any  pretence,  consideration,  threat,  or 
entreaty.  I  had  no  faith  in  any  official  receipt  for  the  Bot- 
tle, and  nothing  would  induce  me  to  accept  one.  These 
unmanageable  politics  at  last  brought  me  and  the  Bottle, 
still  triumphant,  to  Genoa.  There  I  took  a  tender  and 
reluctant  leave  of  him  for  a  few  weeks,  and  consigned  him 
to  a  trusty  English  captain,  to  be  conveyed  to  the  port  of 
London  by  sea. 

While  the  Bottle  was  on  his  voyage  to  England,  I  read 
the  Shipping  Intelligence,  as  anxiously  as  if  I  had  been  an 
underwriter.  There  was  some  stormy  weather  after  I  my- 
self had  got  to  England  by  way  of  Switzerland  and  France, 
and  my  mind  greatly  misgave  me  that  the  Bottle  might  be 
wrecked.  At  last,  to  my  great  joy,  I  received  notice  of  his 
safe  arrival,  and  immediately  went  down  to  Saint  Kath- 
arine's Docks,  and  found  him  in  a  state  of  honorable  captiv- 
ity in  the  custom-house. 

The  wine  was  mere  vinegar  when  I  set  it  down  before  the 
gen3rous  Englishman,  —  probably  it  had  been  something 
like  vinegar  when  I  took  it  up  from  Giovanni  Carlavero,  — 
but  not  a  drop  of  it  was  spilled  or  gone.  And  the  English- 
man told  me,  with  much  emotion  in  his  face  and  voice,  that 
he  had  never  tasted  wine  that  seemed  to  him  so  sweet  and 
sound.  And  long  afterward,  the  Bottle  graced  his  table. 
And  the  last  time  I  saw  him  in  this  world  that  misses 'him, 
he  took  me  aside  in  a  crowd,  to  say,  with  his  amiable  smile  : 
"  We  were  talking  of  you  only  to-day  at  dinner,  and  I 
wished  you  had  been  there,  for  I  had  some  claret  up  in  Car- 
lavero's  Bottle." 


WHEN  I  AWAKE,  I  AM  STILL  WITH  THEE. 

BY  MRS.  H.  B.   STOWE. 

S"  TILL,  still  with  thee,  when  purple  morning  breaketh. 
When  the  bird  waketh  and  the  shadows  flee ; 
Fairer  than  morning,  lovelier  than  the  daylight, 
Dawns  the  sweet  consciousness,  lam  with  thee! 

Alone  with  thee,  amid  the  mystic  shadows, 

The  solemn  hush  of  nature  newly  bora ; 
Alone  with  thee  in  breathless  adoration, 

In  the  calm  dew  and  freshness  of  the  morn. 

As  in  the  dawning  o'er  the  waveless  ocean 
The  image  of  the  morning  star  doth  rest, 

So  in  this  stillness  thou  beholdest  only 
Thine  image  in  the  waters  of  my  breast. 

Still,  still  with  thee  !  as  to  each  new-born  morning 
A  fresh  and  solemn  splendor  still  is  given, 

So  doth  this  blessed  consciousness,  awaking, 

Breathe,  each  day,  nearness  unto  thee  and  heaven. 

When  sinks  the  soul,  subdued  by  toil,  to  slumber, 
Its  closing  eye  looks  up  to  thee  in  prayer, 

Sweet  the  repose  beneath  thy  wings  o'ershading, 
But  sweeter  still  to  wake  and  find  thee  there. 

So  shall  it  be  at  last,  in  that  bright  morning 
When  the  soul  waketh  and  life's  shadows  flee ; 

O,  in  that  hour,  fairer  than  daylight  dawning, 
Shall  rise  the  glorious  thought,  /  am  with  thee  r 


THE    EVE   OP    ST.  AGNES, 

BY  JOHN  KEATS. 

ST.  AGNES'  EVE,  —  ah,  bitter  chill  it  was  ! 
The  owl,  for  all  his  feathers,  was  a-cold ; 
The  hare  limped  trembling  through  the  frozen  grass, 
And  silent  was  the  flock  in  woolly  fold  : 
Nuinb  were  the  beadsman's  fingers  while  he  told 
His  rosary,  and  while  his  frosted  breath, 
Like  pious  incense  from  a  censer  old, 
Seemed  taking  flight  for  heaven  without  a  death, 
Past  the  sweet  virgin's  picture,  while  his  prayer  he  saith, 

His  prayer  he  saith,  this  patient,  holy  man  ; 

Then  takes  his  lamp,  and  riseth  from  his  knees, 

And  back  returneth,  meagre,  barefoot,  wan, 

Along  the  chapel  aisle  by  slow  degrees  ; 

The  sculptured  dead  on  each  side  seem  to  freeze, 

Einprisoned  in  black,  purgatorial  rails  ; 

Knights,  ladies,  praying  in  dumb  orat'ries, 

He  passeth  by  ;  and  his  weak  spirit  fails 

To  think  how  they  may  ache  in  icy  hoods  and  mails. 

Northward  he  turneth  through  a  little  door, 
And  scarce  three  steps,  ere  music's  golden  tongue 
Flattered  to  tears  this  aged  man  and  poor ; 
But  no,  —  already  had  his  death-bell  rung  ; 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.   AGNES.  229 

The  joys  of  all  his  life  were  said  and  sung  : 

His  was  harsh  penance  on  St.  Agues'  Eve  : 

Another  way  he  went,  and  soon  among 

Rough  ashes  sat  he  for  his  soul's  reprieve, 

And  all  night  kept  awake,  for  sinners'  sake  to  grieve. 

That  ancient  beadsman  heard  the  prelude  soft : 
And  so  it  chanced,  for  many  a  door  was  wide, 
From  hurry  to  and  fro.     Soon,  up  aloft, 
The  silver,  snarling  trumpets  'gan  to  chide  ; 
The  level  chambers,  ready  with  their  pride, 
Were  glowing  to  receive  a  thousand  guests  : 
The  carved  angels,  ever  eager-eyed, 
Stared,  where  upon  their  heads  the  cornice  rests, 
With  hair  blown  back,  and  wings  put  crosswise  on  their 
breasts. 

At  length  burst  in  the  argent  revelry, 

With  plume,  tiara,  and  all  rich  array, 

Numerous  as  shadows  haunting  fairily 

The  brain,  new-stuffed,  in  youth,  with  triumphs  gay 

Of  old  romance.     These  let  us  wish  away  ; 

And  turn,  sole-thoughted,  to  one  lady  there, 

Whose  heart  had  brooded,  all  that  wintry  day, 

On  love,  and  winged  St.  Agnes'  saiotly  care, 

As  she  had  heard  old  dames  full  many  times  declare. 

They  told  her  how,  upon  St.  Agnes'  Eve, 

Young  virgins  might  have  visions  of  delight, 

And  soft  adorings  from  their  loves  receive 

Upon  the  honeyed  middle  of  the  night, 

If  ceremonies  due  they  did  aright ; 

As,  supperless  to  bed  they  must  retire, 

And  couch  supine  their  beauties,  lily  white  ; 

Nor  look  behind,  nor  sideways,  but  require 

Of  heaven  with  upward  eyes  for  all  that  they  desire. 


230  JOHN  KEATS. 

Full  of  this  whim  was  thoughtful  Madeline ; 

The  music,  yearning  like  a  god  in  pain, 

She  scarcely  heard ;  her  maiden  eyes  divine, 

Fixed  on  the  floor,  saw  many  a  sweeping  train 

Pass  by,  —  she  heeded  not  at  all ;  in  vain 

Came  many  a  tiptoe,  amorous  cavalier, 

And  back  retired,  not  cooled  by  high  disdain. 

But  she  saw  not ;  her  heart  was  otherwhere  ; 

She  sighed  for  Agnes'  dreams,  the  sweetest  of  the  year. 

She  danced  along  with  vague,  regardless  eyes, 
Anxious  her  lips,  her  breathing  quick  and  short ; 
The  hallowed  hour  was  near  at  hand ;  she  sighs 
Amid  the  timbrels,  and  the  thronged  resort 
Of  whisperers  in  anger,  or  in  sport ; 
Mid  looks  of  love,  defiance,  hate,  and  scorn, 
Hoodwinked  with  fairy  fancy  ;  all  amort 
Save  to  St.  Agnes  and  her  lambs  unshorn, 
And  all  the  bliss  to  be  before  to-morrow  morn. 

So,  purposing  each  moment  to  retire, 
She  lingered  still.     Meantime,  across  the  moors, 
Had  come  young  Porphyro,  with  heart  on  fire 
For  Madeline.     Beside  the  portal  doors, 
Buttressed  from  moonlight,  stands  he,  and  implores 
All  saints  to  give  him  sight  of  Madeline  ; 
But  for  one  moment  in  the  tedious  hours, 
That  he  might  gaze  and  worship  all  unseen  ; 
Perchance  speak,  kneel,  touch,  kiss,  —  in  sooth  such  thing:- 
have  been. 

He  ventures  in :  let  no  buzzed  whisper  tell : 
All  eyes  be  muffled,  or  a  hundred  swords 
Will  storm  his  heart,  love's  feverous  citadel ; 
For  him,  those  chambers  held  barbarian  hordes, 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES.  231 

Hyena  foemen,  and  hot-blooded  lords, 
Whose  very  dogs  would  execrations  howl 
Against  his  lineage ;  not  one  breast  affords 
Him  any  mercy,  in  that  mansion  foul, 
Save  one  old  beldame,  weak  in  body  and  in  soul. 

Ah,  happy  chance  !  the  aged  creature  came, 

Shuffling  along  with  ivory-headed  wand, 

To  where  he  stood,  hid  from  the  torch's  flame, 

Behind  a  broad  hall-pillar,  far  beyond 

The  sound  of  merriment  and  chorus  bland. 

He  startled  her ;  but  soon  she  knew  his  face, 

And  grasped  his  fingers  in  her  palsied  hand, 

Saying,  "•  Mercy,  Porphyro !  hie  thee  from  this  place ; 

They  are  all  here  to-night,  the  whole  blood-thirsty  race  ! 

"  Get  hence  !  get  hence  !  there 's  dwarfish  Hildebraud  ; 

He  had  a  fever  late,  and  in  the  fit 

He  cursed  thee  and  thine,  both  house  and  land ; 

Then  there 's  that  old  Lord  Maurice,  not  a  whit 

More  tame  for  his  gray  hairs  —  Alas  me  !  flit ! 

Flit  like  a  ghost  away ! "     "  Ah,  gossip  dear, 

We  're  safe  enough ;  here  in  this  arm-chair  sit, 

And  tell  me  how  —  "    ".  Good  saints  !  not  here,  not  here  ; 

Follow  me,  child,  or  else  these  stones  will  be  thy  bier." 

He  followed  through  a  lowly  arched  way, 
Brushing  the  cobwebs  with  his  lofty  plume ; 
And  as  she  muttered,  "  Well-a  —  well-a-day ! " 
He  found  him  in  a  little  moonlight  room, 
Pale,  latticed,  chill,  and  silent  as  a  tomb. 
"  Now  tell  me  where  is  Madeline,"  said  he, 
"  O,  tell  me,  Angela,  by  the  holy  loom 
Which  none  but  secret  sisterhood  may  see, 
When  they  St.  Agnes'  wool  are  weaving  piously." 


232  JOHN  KEATS. 

"  St.  Agnes  !     Ah  !  it  is  St.  Agnes'  Eve,  — 

Yet  men  will  murder  upon  holy  days ; 

Thou  must  hold  water  in  a  witch's  sieve, 

And  be  liege-lord  of  all  the  elves  and  fays, 

To  venture  so.     It  fills  me  wi'h  amaze 

To  see  thee,  Porphyro  !  —  St.  Agnes'  Eve  ! 

God's  help  !  my  lady  fair  the  conjurer  plays 

This  very  night ;  good  angels  her  deceive  ! 

But  let  me  laugh  awhile,  I  've  mickle  time  to  grieve." 

Feebly  she  laugheth  in  the  languid  moon, 

While  Porphyro  upon  her  face  doth  look, 

Like  puzzled  urchin  on  an  aged  crone 

Who  keepeth  closed  a  wondrous  riddle-book, 

As  spectacled  she  sits  in  chimney  nook. 

But  soon  his  eyes  grew  brilliant,  when  she  told 

His  lady's  purpose ;  and  he  scarce  could  brook 

Tears,  at  the  thought  of  those  enchantments  cold, 

And  Madeline  asleep  in  lap  of  legends  old. 

Sudden  a  thought  came  like  a  full-blown  rose, 

Flushing  his  brow*  and  in  his  pained  heart 

Made  purple  riot ;  then  doth  he  propose 

A  stratagem,  that  makes  the  beldame  start : 

"  A  cruel  man  and  impious  thou  art ! 

Sweet  lady,  let  her  pray,  and  sleep  and  dream 

Alone  with  her  good  angels,  far  apart 

From  wicked  men  like  thee.     Go,  go !  I  deem 

Thou  canst  not  surely  be  the  same  that  thou  didst  seem." 

"  I  will  not  harm  her,  by  all  saints  1  swear  ! " 
Quoth  Porphyro ;  "  O,  may  I  ne'er  find  grace 
When  my  weak  voice  shall  whisper  its  last  prayer, 
If  one  of  her  soft  ringlets  I  displace, 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES.  233 

Or  look  with  ruffian  passion  in  her  face : 
Good  Angela,  believe  me  by  these  tears ; 
Or  I  will,  even  in  a  moment's  space, 
Awake,  with  horrid  shout,  my  foemen's  ears, 
And  beard  them,  though  they  be  more  fanged  than  wolves 
and  bears." 

"  Ah  !  why  wilt  thou  affright  a  feeble  soul  ? 
A  poor,  weak,  palsy-stricken,  churchyard  thing, 
Whose  passing-bell  may  ere  the  midnight  toll ; 
Whose  prayers  for  thee,  each  morn  and  evening, 
Were  never  missed."     Thus  plaining,  doth  she  bring 
A  gentler  speech  from  burning  Porphyro ; 
So  woful,  and  of  such  deep  sorrowing, 
That  Angela  gives  promise  she  will  do 
Whatever  he  shall  wish,  betide  her  weal  or  woe. 

Which  was,  to  lead  him,  in  close  secrecy, 

Even  to  Madeline's  chamber,  and  there  hide 

Him  in  a  closet,  of  such  privacy 

That  he  might  see  her  beauty  unespied, 

And  win  perhaps  that  night  a  peerless  bride, 

While  legioned  fairies  paced  the  coverlet, 

And  pale  enchantment  held  her  sleepy-eyed. 

Never  on  such  a  night  have  lovers  met, 

Since  Merlin  paid  his  demon  all  the  monstrous  debt. 

"  It  shall  be  as  thou  wishest,"  said  the  dame ; 
"  All  cates  and  dainties  shall  be  stored  there 
Quickly  on  this  feast-night ;  by  the  tambour  frame 
Her  own  lute  thou  wilt  see ;  no  time  to  spare, 
For  I  am  slow  and  feeble,  and  scarce  dare 
On  such  a  catering  trust  my  dizzy  head. 
Wait  here,  my  child,  with  patience  kneel  in  prayer 
The  while.     Ah  !  thou  must  needs  the  lady  wed, 
Or  may  I  never  leave  my  grave  among  the  dead." 


234  JOHN  KEATS. 

So  saying,  she  hobbled  off  with  busy  fear. 

The  lover's  endless  minutes  slowly  passed : 

The  dame  returned,  and  whispered  in  his  ear 

To  follow  her  ;  with  aged  eyes  aghast 

From  fright  of  dim  espial.     Safe  at  last, 

Through  many  a  dusky  gallery,  they  gain 

The  maiden's  chamber,  silken,  hushed  and  chaste ; 

Where  Porphyro  took  covert,  pleased  amain. 

His  poor  guide  hurried  back  with  agues  in  her  brain. 

Her  faltering  hand  upon  the  balustrade, 
Old  Angela  was  feeling  for  the  stair, 
When  Madeline,  St.  Agnes'  charmed  maid, 
Rose,  like  a  missioned  spirit,  unaware ; 
With  silver  taper's  light,  and  pious  care, 
She  turned,  and  down  the  aged  gossip  led 
To  a  safe  level  matting.     Now  prepare, 
Young  Porphyro,  for  gazing  on  that  bed  ! 
She  comes,  she  comes  again,  like  ring-dove  frayed  and 
fled. 

Out  went  the  taper  as  she  hurried  in ; 

Its  little  smoke,  in  pallid  moonshine,  died ; 

She  closed  the  door,  she  panted,  all  akin 

To  spirits  of  the  air,  and  visions  wide ; 

No  uttered  syllable,  or,  woe  betide ! 

But  to  her  heart,  her  heart  was  voluble, 

Paining  with  eloquence  her  balmy  side ; 

As  though  a  tongueless  nightingale  should  swell 

Her  throat  in  vain,  and  die,  heart-stifled  in  her  dell. 

A  casement  high  and  triple-arched  there  was, 
All  garlanded  with  carven  imageries 
Of  fruits,  and  flowers,  and  bunches  of  knot-grass, 
And  diamonded  with  panes  of  quaint  device, 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES.  235 

Innumerable  of  stains  and  splendid  dyes, 
As  are  the  tiger-moth's  deep-damasked  wings; 
And  in  the  midst,  'mong  thousand  heraldries, 
And  twilight  saints,  and  dim  emblazonings, 
A  shielded  scutcheon  blushed  with  blood  of  queens  and 
kings. 

Full  on  this  casement  shone  the  wintry  moon, 
And  threw  warm  gules  on  Madeline's  fair  breast, 
As  down  she  knelt  for  heaven's  grace  and  boon ; 
Rose-bloom  fell  on  her  hands,  together  prest, 
And  on  IILT  silver  cross  soft  amethyst, 
And  on  her  hair  a  glory,  like  a  saint ; 
She  seemed  a  splendid  angel,  newly  drest, 
Save  wings,  for  heaven.     Porphyro  grew  faint: 
She  knelt,  so  pure  a  thing,  so  free  from  mortal  taint. 

Anon  his  heart  revives ;  her  vespers  done, 

Of  all  its  wreathed  pearls  her  hair  she  frees  ;  , 

Unclasps  her  warmed  jewels  one  by  one ; 

Loosens  her  fragrant  bodice  ;  by  degrees 

Her  rich  attire  creeps  rustling  to  her  knees ; 

Half  hidden,  like  a  mermaid  in  sea- weed, 

Pensive  awhile  she  dreams  awake,  and  sees, 

In  fancy,  fair  St.  Agnes  in  her  bed, 

But  dares  not  look  behind,  or  all  the  charm  is  fled. 

Soon,  trembling  in  her  soft  and  chilly  nest, 
In  sort  of  wakeful  swoon,  perplexed  she  lay, 
Until  the  poppied  warmth  of  sleep  oppressed 
Her  soothed  limbs,  and  soul  fatigued  away  ; 
Flown  like  a  thought,  until  the  morrow-day; 
Blissfully  havened  both  from  joy  and  pain ; 
Clasped  like  a  inissal  where  swart  Payiiims  pray ; 


236  JOHN  KEATS. 

Blinded  alike  from  sunshine  and  from  rain, 

As  though  a  rose  should  shut,  and  be  a  bud  again. 

Stolen  to  this  paradise,  and  so  entranced, 
Porphyro  gazed  upon  her  empty  dress, 
And  listened  to  her  breathing,  if  it  chanced 
To  wake  into  a  slumbrous  tenderness ; 
Which  when  he  heard,  that  minute  did  he  bless, 
And  breathed  himself ;  then  from  the  closet  crept, 
Noiseless  as  fear  in  a  wide  wilderness, 
And  over  the  hushed  carpet,  silent,  stept, 
And  'tween   the  curtains  peeped,  where,  lo !  —  how  fast 
she  slept. 

Then  by  the  bedside,  where  the  faded  moon 
Made  a  dim,  silver  twilight,  soft  he  set 
A  table,  and,  half  anguished,  threw  thereon 
A  cloth  of  woven  crimson,  gold,  and  jet :  — 
*O  for  some  drowsy  Morphean  amulet ! 
The  boisterous,  midnight,  festive  clarion, 
The  kettle-drum,  and  far-heard  clarionet, 
Affray  his  ears,  though  but  in  dying  tone :  — 
The  hall-door  shuts  again,  and  all  the  noise  is  gone. 

And  still  she  slept  an  azure-lidded  sleep, 
In  blanched  linen,  smooth,  and  laveudered  ; 
While  he  from  forth  the  closet  brought  a  heap 
Of  candied  apple,  quince,  and  plum,  and  gourd ; 
With  jellies  soother  than  the  creamy  curd, 
And  lucent  syrops,  tinct  with  cinnamon  ; 
Manna  and  dates,  in  argosy  transferred 
From  Fez  ;  and  spiced  dainties,  every  one, 
From  silken  Samarcaud  to  cedared  Lebanon. 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES.  237 

These  delicates  he  heaped  with  glowing  hand 

On  golden  dishes  and  in  baskets  bright 

Of  wreathed  silver.     Sumptuous  they  stand 

In  the  retired  quiet  of  the  night, 

Filling  the  chilly  room  with  perfume  light.  — 

"  And  now,  my  love,  my  seraph  fair,  awake ! 

Thou  art  my  heaven,  and  I  thine  eremite  ; 

Open  thine  eyes,  for  meek  St.  Agnes'  sake, 

Or  I  shall  drowse  beside  thee,  so  my  soul  doth  ache." 

Thus  whispering,  his  warm,  unnerved  arm 
Sank  in  her  pillow.     Shaded  was  her  dream 
By  the  dusk  curtains ;  —  't  was  a  midnight  charm 
Impossible  to  melt  as  iced  stream  : 
The  lustrous  salvers  in  the  moonlight  gleam ; 
Broad  golden  fringe  upon  the  carpet  lies ; 
It  seemed  he  never,  never  could  redeem 
From  such  a  steadfast  spell  his  lady's  eyes ; 
So  mused  awhile,  entoiled  in  woofed  phantasies- 
Awakening  up,  he  took  her  hollow  lute,  — 
Tumultuous,  —  and,  in  chords  that  tenderest  be, 
He  played  an  ancient  ditty,  long  since  mute, 
In  Provence  called  "  La  belle  dame  sans  merci ; " 
Close  to  her  ear  touching  the  melody  ;  — 
Wherewith  disturbed,  she  uttered  a  soft  moan : 
He  ceased  ;  she  panted  quick,  —  and  suddenly 
Her  blue  affrayed  eyes  wide  open  shone : 
Upon  his  knees  he  sank,  pale  as  smooth-sculptured  stone. 

Her  eyes  were  open,  but  she  still  beheld, 
Now  wide  awake,  the  vision  of  her  sleep. 
There  was  a  painful  change,  that  nigh  expelled 
The  blisses  of  her  dream  so  pure  and  deep ; 


238  JOHN  KEATS. 

At  which  fair  Madeline  began  to  weep, 
And  moan  forth  witless  words  with  many  a  sigh ; 
While  still  her  gaze  on  Porphyro  would  keep; 
Who  knelt,  with  joined  hands  and  piteous  eye, 
Fearing  to  move  or  speak,  she  looked  so  dreamingly. 

"  Ah,  Porphyro ! "  said  she,  "  hut  even  now 

Thy  voice  was  at  sweet  tremble  in  mine  ear, 

Made  tunable  with  every  sweetest,  vow: 

And  those  sad  eyes  were  spiritual  and  clear ; 

How  changed  thou  art !  how  pallid,  chill,  and  drear! 

Give  me  that  voice  again,  my  Porphyro, 

Those  looks  immortal,  those  complainings  dear ! 

O,  leave  me  not  in  this  eternal  woe, 

For  if  thou  diest,  my  love,  I  know  not  where  to  go." 

Beyond  a  mortal  man  impassioned  far 

At  these  voluptuous  accents,  he  arose, 

Ethereal,  flushed,  and  like  a  throbbing  star 

Seen  mid  the  sapphire  heaven's  deep  repose  ; 

Into  her  dream  he  melted,  as  the  rose 

Blendeth  its  odor  with  the  violet,  — 

Solution  sweet;  meantime  the  frost-wind  blows 

Like  love's  alarum  pattering  the  sharp  sleet 

Against  the  window-panes ;  St.  Agnes'  moon  hath  set. 

'Tis  dark;  quick  pattereth  the  flaw-blown  sleet: 
"  This  is  no  dream,  my  bride,  my  Madeline  ! " 
'Tis  dark;  the  iced  gusts  still  rave  and  beat : 
"  No  dream  ?  alas  !  alas  !  and  woe  is  mine ! 
Porphyro  will  leave  me  here  to  fade  and  pine. 
Cruel !  what  traitor  could  thee  hither  bring? 
I  curse  not,  for  my  heart  is  lost  in  thine, 
Though  thou  forsakest  a  deceived  thing;  — 
A  dove  forlorn  and  lost,  with  sick,  unpruncd  wing." 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES.  239 

"  My  Madeline  !  sweet  dreamer !  lovely  bride ! 

Say,  may  I  be  for  aye  tliy  vassal  blest  ? 

Thy  beauty's  shield,  heart-shaped  and  vermeil  dyed  ? 

Ah,  silver  shrine,  here  will  I  take  my  rest 

After  so  many  hours  of  toil  and  quest, 

A  famished  pilgrim,  —  saved  by  miracle. 

Though  I  have  found,  I  will  not  rob  thy  nest, 

Saving  of  thy  sweet  self;  it'  thou  thiuk'st  well 

To  trust,  fair  Madeline,  to  no  rude  infidel. 

"  Hark  !  't  is  an  elfin  storm  from  faery  land, 

Of  haggard  seeming,  but  a  boon  indeed: 

Arise,  arise!  the  morning  is  at  hand  ;  — 

The  bloated  wassailers  will  never  heed : 

Let  us  away,  my  love,  with  happy  speed ; 

There  are  no  ears  to  hear,  or  eyes  to  see,  — 

Drowned  all  in  Rhenish  and  the  sleepy  mead : 

Awake,  arise,  my  love,  and  fearless  be, 

For  o'er  the  southern  moors  I  have  a  home  for  thee." 

She  hurried  at  his  words,  beset  with  fears, 

For  there  were  sleeping  dragons  all  around, 

At  glaring  watch,  perhaps,  with  ready  spears; 

Down  the  wide  stairs  a  darkling  way  they  found, 

In  all  the  house  was  heard  no  human  sound. 

A  chain-drooped  lamp  was  flickering  by  each  door ; 

The  arras,  rich  with  horseman,  hawk,  and  hound, 

Fluttered  in  the  besieging  wind's  uproar; 

And  the  long  carpets  rose  along  the  gusty  floor. 

They  glide,  like  phantoms,  into  the  wide  hall ! 
Like  phantoms  to  the  iron  porch  they  glide, 
Where  lay  the  porter,  in  uneasy  sprawl, 
With  a  huge  empty  flagon  by  his  side : 


240  JOHN  KEATS. 

The  wakeful  bloodhound  rose,  and  shook  his  hide, 

But  his  sagacious  eye  an  inmate  owns ; 

By  one,  and  one,  the  bolts  full  easy  slide  ; 

The  chains  lie  silent  on  the  footworn  stones  ; 

The  key  turns,  and  the  door  upon  its  hinges  groans. 

And  they  are  gone !  ay,  ages  long  ago 
These  lovers  fled  away  into  the  storm. 
That  night  the  baron  dreamt  of  many  a  woe, 
And  all  his  warrior-guests,  with  shade  and  form 
Of  witch,  and  demon,  and  large  coffin-worm, 
Were  long  be-nightmared.     Angela  the  old 
Died  palsy- twitched,  with  meagre  face  deform ; 
The  beadsman,  after  thousand  aves  told, 
For  aye  unsought-for  slept  among  his  ashes  cold. 


LINKS  ¥ITH  HEAVEN 


BY  ADELAIDE  A.  PROCTER. 

OUR  God  in  Heaven,  from  that  holy  place, 
To  each  of  us  an  Angel  guide  has  given ; 
But  Mothers  of  dead  children  have  more  grace,  — 
For  they  give  Angels  to  their  God  and  Heaven. 

How  can  a  Mother's  heart  feel  cold  or  weary, 
Knowing  her  dearer  self  safe,  happy,  warm  ? 

How  can  she  feel  her  road  too  dark  or  dreary, 

Who  knows  her  treasure  sheltered  from  the  storm' 

How  can  she  sin  ?    Our  hearts  may  be  unheeding, 
Our  God  forgot,  our  holy  Saints  defied; 

But  can  a  mother  hear  her  dead  child  pleading, 
And  thrust  those  little  angel  hands  aside  ? 

Those  little  hands  stretched  down  to  draw  her  ever 
Nearer  to  God  by  mother  love :  —  we  all 

Are  blind  and  weak,  yet  surely  she  can  never, 
With  such  a  stake  in  Heaven,  fail  or  fall. 

She  knows  that  when  the  mighty  Angels  raise 
Chorus  in  Heaven,  one  little  silver  tone 

Is  hers  forever,  that  one  little  praise, 
One  little  happy  voice,  is  all  her  own. 
16 


242  ADELAIDE  A.  PROCTER. 

We  may  not  sec  her  sacred  crown  of  honor, 
But  all  the  Angels  flitting  to  and  fro 

Pause  smiling  as  they  pass,  —  they  look  upon  her 
As  mother  of  an  angel  whom  they  know, 

One  whom  they  left  nestled  at  Mary's  feet,  — 

The  children's  place  in  Heaven,  —  who  softly  singa 

A  little  chant  to  please  them,  slow  and  sweet, 
Or  smiling  strokes  their  little  folded  wings  ; 

Or  gives  them  Her  white  lilies  or  Her  beads 
To  play  with  :  —  yet,  in  spite  of  flower  or  song, 

They  often  lift  a  wistful  look  that  pleads 

And  asks  Her  why  their  mother  stays  so  long. 

Then  our  dear  Queen  makes  answer  she  will  call 
Her  very  soon  :  .meanwhile  they  are  beguiled 

To  wait  and  listen  while  She  tells  them  all 
A  story  of  Her  Jesus  as  a  child. 

All,  Saints  in  Heaven  may  pray  with  earnest  will 
And  pity  for  their  weak  and  erring  brothers : 

Yet  there  is  prayer  in  Heaven  more  tender  still,  — 
The  little  Children  pleading  for  their  Mothers. 


WINTER  ANIMAIS  IN  THE  WOODS. 


BY  HENRY  D.  THOREAU. 

FOR  sounds  in  winter  nights,  and  often  in  winter  days, 
I  heard  the  forlorn  but  melodious  note  of  a  hooting 
owl  indefinitely  far ;  such  a  sound  as  the  frozen  earth  would 
yield  if  struck  with  a  suitable  plectrum,  the  very  lingua 
vernacida  of  "Waldcn  "Wood,  and  quite  familiar  to  me  at 
last,  though  I  never  saw  the  bird  while  it  was  making  it 
I  seldom  opened  my  door  in  a  winter  evening  without  hear- 
ing it :  Hoo  hoo  hoo,  hoorer  hoo,  sounded  sonorously,  and 
the  first  three  syllables  accented  somewhat  like  how  der  do  ; 
or  sometimes  hoo  hoo  only.  One  night  in  the  beginning  of 
winter,  before  the  pond  froze  over,  about  nine  o'clock,  I  was 
startled  by  the  loud  honking  of  a  goose,  and,  stepping  to 
the  door,  heard  the  sound  of  their  wings  like  a  tempest  in 
the  woods  as  they  flew  low  over  my  house.  They  passed 
over  the  pond  toward  Fair  Haven,  seemingly  deterred  from 
settling  by  my  light,  their  commodore  honking  all  the 
wliile  with  a  regular  beat.  Suddenly  an  unmistakable  cat- 
owl  from  very  near  me,  with  the  most  harsh  and  tremendous 
voice  I  ever  heard  from  any  inhabitant  of  the  woods,  re- 
sponded at  regular  intervals  to  the  goose,  as  if  determined 
to  expose  and  disgrace  this  intruder  from  Hudson's  Bay  by 
exhibiting  a  greater  compass  and  volume  of  voice  in  a 
native,  and  boo-hoo  him  out  of  Concord  horizon.  What  do 
you  mean  by  alarming  the  citadel  at  this  time  of  night  con- 


244  HENRY  D.  THOREAU. 

secrated  to  me  ?  Do  you  think  I  am  ever  caught  napping 
at  such  an  hour,  and  that  I  have  not  got  lungs  and  a  larynx 
as  well  as  yourself?  Boo-hoo,  boo-hoo,  boo-hoo!  It  was 
one  of  the  most  thrilling  discords  I  ever  heard.  And  yet, 
if  you  had  a  discriminating  ear,  there  were  in  it  the  ele- 
ments of  a  concord  such  as  these  plains  never  saw  nor 
heard. 

I  also  heard  the  whooping  of  the  ice  in  the  pond,  my 
great  bedfellow  in  that  part  of  Concord,  as  if  it  were  rest- 
less in  its  bed  and  would  fain  turn  over,  were  troubled  with 
flatulency  and  bad  dreams ;  or  I  was  waked  by  the  cracking 
of  the  ground  by  the  frost,  as  if  some  one  had  driven  a 
team  against  my  door,  and  in  the  morning  would  find  a 
crack  in  the  earth  a  quarter  of  a  mile  long  and  a  third  of 
an  inch  wide. 

Sometimes  I  heard  the  foxes  as  they  ranged  over  the 
snow-crust,  in  moonlight  nights,  in  search  of  a  partridge  or 
other  game,  barking  raggedly  and  demoniacally,  like  forest 
dogs,  as  if  laboring  with  some  anxiety,  or  seeking  expres- 
sion, struggling  for  light  and  to  be  dogs  outright  and  run 
freely  in  the  streets ;  for  if  we  take  the  ages  into  our 
account,  may  there  not  be  a  civilization  going  on  among 
brutes  as  well  as  men  ?  They  seemed  to  me  to  be  rudi- 
mental,  burrowing  men,  still  standing  on  their  defence, 
awaiting  their  transformation.  Sometimes  one  came  near 
to  my  window,  attracted  by  my  light,  barked  a  vulpine 
curse  at  me,  and  then  retreated. 

Usually  the  red  squirrel  (Sciurus  Hudsonius)  waked  me 
in  the  dawn,  coursing  over  the  roof  and  up  and  down  the 
sides  of  the  house,  as  if  sent  out  of  the  woods  for  this  pur- 
pose. In  the  course  of  the  winter  I  threw  out  half  a 
bushel  of  ears  of  sweet-corn,  which  had  not  got  ripe,  on  to 
the  snow-crust  by  my  door,  and  was  amused  by  watching 
the  motions  of  the  various  animals  which  were  baited  by  it. 
In  the  twilight  and  the  night  the  rabbits  came  regularly  and 


WINTER  ANIMALS  IN  THE  WOODS.       245 

made  a  hearty  meal.  All  day  long  the  red  squirrels  came 
and  went,  and  afforded  me  much  entertainment  by  their 
manoeuvres.  One  would  approach  at  first  warily  through 
the  shrub-oaks,  running  over  the  snow-crust  by  fits  and 
starts,  like  a  leaf  blown  by  the  wind,  now  a  few  paces  this 
way,  with  wonderful  speed  and  waste  of  energy,  making 
inconceivable  haste  with  his  "  trotters,"  as  if  it  were  for  a 
wager,  and  now  as  many  paces  that  way,  but  never  getting 
on  more  than  half  a  rod  at  a  time ;  and  then  suddenly 
pausing  with  a  ludicrous  expression  and  a  gratuitous  somer- 
set, as  if  all  the  eyes  in  the  universe  were  fixed  on  him,  — 
for  all  the  motions  of  a  squirrel,  even  in  the  most  solitary 
recesses  of  the  forest,  imply  spectators  as  much  as  those  of 
a  dancing-girl,  —  wasting  more  time  in  delay  and  circum- 
spection than  would  have  sufficed  to  walk  the  whole  dis- 
tance,—  I  never  saw  one  walk, — and  then  suddenly, 
before  you  could  say  Jack  Robinson,  he  would  be  in  the  top 
of  a  young  pitch-pine,  winding  up  his  clock  and  chiding  all 
imaginary  spectators,  soliloquizing  and  talking  to  all  the 
universe  at  the  same  time,  —  for  no  reason  that  I  could  ever 
detect,  or  he  himself  was  aware  of,  I  suspect.  At  length 
he  would  reach  the  corn,  and  selecting  a  suitable  ear,  brisk 
about  in  the  same  uncertain  trigonometrical  way  to  the  top- 
most stick  of  my  wood-pile,  before  my  window,  where  he 
looked  me  in  the  face,  and  there  sit  for  hours,  supplying 
himself  with  a  new  ear  from  time  to  time,  nibbling  at  first 
voraciously  and  throwing  the  half-naked  cobs  about ;  till  at 
length  he  grew  more  dainty  still,  and  played  with  his  food, 
tasting  only  the  inside  of  the  kernel,  and  the  ear,  which 
was  held  balanced  over  the  stick  by  one  paw,  slipped  from 
his  careless  grasp  and  fell  to  the  ground,  when  he  would  look 
over  at  it  with  a  ludicrous  expression  of  uncertainty,  as  if 
suspecting  that  it  had  life,  with  a  mind  not  made  up  whether 
to  get  it  again,  or  a  new  one,  or  be  off;  now  thinking  of 
corn,  then  listening  to  hear  what  was  in  the  wind.  So  the 


24  (?  HENRY  D.  THOREAU. 

little  impudent  fellow  would  waste  many  an  ear  in  a  fore- 
noon ;  till  at  last,  seizing  some  longer  and  plumper  one, 
considerably  bigger  than  himself,  and  skilfully  balancing  it, 
he  would  set  out  with  it  to  the  woods,  like  a  tiger  with 
a  buffalo,  by  the  samo  zigzag  course  and  frequent  pauses, 
scratching  along  with  it  as  if  it  were  too  heavy  for  him  and 
falling  all  the  while,  making  its  fall  a  diagonal  between  a 
perpendicular  and  horizontal,  being  determined  to  put  it 
through  at  any  rate  ;  — a  singularly  frivolous  and  whimsical 
fellow ;  —  and  so  he  would  get  off  with  it  to  where  he  lived, 
perhaps  carry  it  to  the  top  of  a  pine-tree  forty  or  fifty  rods 
distant,  and  I  would  afterwards  find  the  cobs  strewn  about 
the  woods  in  various  directions. 

At  length  the  jays  arrive,  whose  discordant  screams  were 
heard  long  before,  as  they  were  warily  making  their 
approach  an  eighth  of  a  mile  off,  and  in  a  stealthy  and 
sneaking  manner  they  flit  from  tree  to  tree,  nearer  and 
nearer,  and  pick  up  the  kernels  which  the  squirrels  have 
dropped.  Then,  sitting  on  a  pitch-pine  bough,  they  attempt 
to  swallow  in  their  haste  a  kernel  which  is  too  big  for  their 
throats  and  chokes  them;  and  after  great  labor  they  dis- 
gorge it,  and  spend  an  hour  in  the  endeavor  to  crack  it  by 
repeated  blows  with  their  bills.  They  were  manifestly 
thieves,  and  I  had  not  much  respect  for  them;  but  the 
squirrels,  though  at  first  shy,  went  to  work  as  if  they  were 
taking  what  was  their  own. 

Meanwhile,  also,  came  the  chickadees  in  flocks,  which, 
picking  up  the  crumbs  the  squirrels  had  dropped,  flew  to  the 
nearest  twig,  and,  placing  them  under  their  claws,  hammered 
away  at  them  with  their  little  bills,  as  if  it  were  an  insect 
in  the  bark,  till  they  were  sufficiently  reduced  for  their 
slender  throats.  A  little  flock  of  these  titmice  came  daily 
to  pick  a  dinner  out  of  my  wood-pile,  or  the  crumbs  at  my 
door,  with  faint,  flitting,  lisping  notes,  like  the  tinkling  of 
icicles  in  the  grass,  or  else  with  sprightly  day  day  day,  or 


WINTER  ANIMALS  IN  THE  WOODS.  247 

more  rarely,  in  spring-like  days,  a  wiry  summery  phe-fo 
from  the  wood-side.  They  were  so  familiar  that  at  length 
one  alighted  on  an  armful  of  wood  which  I  was  carrying  in, 
and  pecked  at  the  sticks  without  fear.  I  once  had  a  spar- 
row alight  upon  my  shoulder  for  a  moment  while  I  was 
hoeing  in  a  village  garden,  and  I  felt  that  I  was  more  dis- 
tinguished by  that  circumstance  than  I  should  have  been  by 
any  epaulet  I  could  have  worn.  The  squirrels  also  grew  at 
last  to  be  quite  familiar,  and  occasionally  stepped  upon  niy 
shoe,  when  that  was  the  nearest  way. 

When  the  ground  was  not  yet  quite  covered,  and  again 
near  the  end  of  winter,  when  the  snow  was  melted  on  my 
south  hillside  and  about  my  wood-pile,  the  partridges  came 
out  of  the  woods  morning  and  evening  to  feed  there. 
Whichever  side  you  walk  in  the  woods  the  partridge  bursts 
away  on  whirring  wings,  jarring  the  snow  from  the  dry 
leaves  and  twigs  on  high,  which  comes  sifting  down  in  the 
sunbeams  like  golden  dust ;  for  this  brave  bird  is  not  to  be 
scared  by  winter.  It  is  frequently  covered  up  by  drifts, 
and,  it  is  said,  "  sometimes  plunges  from  on  wing  into  the 
soft  snow,  where  it  remains  concealed  for  a  day  or  two."  I 
used  to  start  them  in  the  open  land  also,  where  they  had 
come  out  of  the  woods  at  sunset  to  "  bud  "  the  wild  apple- 
trees.  They  will  come  regularly  every  evening  to  particu- 
lar trees,  where  the  cunning  sportsman  lies  in  wait  for  them, 
and  the  distant  orchards  next  the  woods  suffer  thus  not  a 
little.  I  am  glad  that  the  partridge  gets  fed,  at  any  rate. 
It  is  Nature's  own  bird  which  lives  on  buds  and  diet-drink. 

In  dark  winter  mornings,  or  in  short  winter  afternoons, 
I  sometimes  heard  a  pack  of  hounds  threading  all  the  woods 
with  hounding  cry  and  yelp,  unable  to  resist  the  instinct  of 
the  chase,  and  the  note  of  the  hunting-horn  at  intervals, 
proving  that  man  was  in  the  rear.  The  woods  ring  again, 
and  yet  no  fox  bursts  forth  on  to  the  open  level  of  the  pond, 
nor  following  pack  pursuing  their  Actaion.  And  perhaps  at 


248  HENRY  D.  THOREAU. 

evening  I  see  the  hunters  returning  with  a  single  brush 
trailing  from  their  sleigh  for  a  trophy,  seeking  their  inn. 
They  tell  me  that  if  the  fox  would  remain  in  the  bosom  of 
the  frozen  earth  he  would  be  safe,  or  if  he  would  run  in  a 
straight  line  away  no  fox-hound  could  overtake  him ;  but, 
having  left  his  pursuers  far  behind,  he  stops  to  rest  and 
listen  till  they  come  up,  and  when  he  runs  he  circles  round 
to  his  old  haunts,  where  the  hunters  await  him.  Sometimes, 
however,  he  will  run  upon  a  wall  many  rods,  and  then  leap 
off  far  to  one  side,  and  he  appears  to  know  that  water  will 
not  retain  his  scent.  A  hunter  told  me  that  he  once  saw  a 
fox  pursued  by  hounds  burst  out  on  to  Walden  when  the 
ice  was  covered  with  shallow  puddles,  run  part  way  across, 
and  then  return  to  the  same  shore.  Erelong  the  hounds 
arrived,  but  here  they  lost  the  scent.  Sometimes  a  pack 
hunting  by  themselves  would  pass  my  door,  and  circle  round 
my  house,  and  yelp  and  hound  without  regarding  me,  as  if 
afflicted  by  a  species  of  madness,  so  that  nothing  could 
divert  them  from  the  pursuit.  Thus  they  circle  until  they 
fall  upon  the  recent  trail  of  a  fox,  for  a  wise  hound  will  for- 
sake everything  else  for  this.  One  day  a  man  came  to  my 
hut  from  Lexington  to  inquire  after  his  hound,  that  made  a 
large  track,  and  had  been  hunting  for  a  week  by  himself. 
But  I  fear  that  he  was  not  the  wiser  for  all  I  told  him,  for 
every  time  I  attempted  to  answer  his  questions  he  inter- 
rupted me  by  asking,  "  What  do  you  do  here  ? "  He  had 
lost  a  dog,  but  found  a  man. 

One  old  hunter  who  has  a  dry  tongue,  who  used  to  come 
to  bathe  in  Walden  once  every  year  when  the  water  was 
warmest,  and  at  such  times  looked  in  upon  me,  told  me, 
that  many  years  ago  he  took  his  gun  one  afternoon  and 
went  out  for  a  cruise  in  Walden  Wood ;  and  as  he  walked 
the  Wayland  road  he  heard  the  cry  of  hounds  approaching, 
and  erelong  a  fox  leaped  the  wall  into  the  road,  and  as  quick 
as  thought  leaped  the  other  wall  out  of  the  road,  and  his 


WINTER  ANIMALS  IN  THE  WOODS.  249 

swift  bullet  had  not  touched  him.  Some  way  behind  came 
an  old  hound  and  her  three  pups  in  full  pursuit,  hunting 
on  their  own  account,  and  disappeared  again  in  the  woods. 
Late  in  the  afternoon,  as  he  was  resting  in  the  thick  woods 
south  of  Walden,  he  heard  the  voice  of  the  hounds  far  over 
toward  Fair  Haven  still  pursuing  the  fox;  and  on  they 
came,  their  hounding  cry  which  made  all  the  woods  ring 
sounding  nearer  and  nearer,  now  from  Well-Meadow,  now 
from  the  Baker  Farm.  For  a  long  time  he  stood  still  and 
listened  to  their  music,  so  sweet  to  a  hunter's  ear,  when 
suddenly  the  fox  appeared,  threading  the  solemn  aisles  with 
an  easy  coursing  pace,  whose  sound  was  concealed  by  & 
sympathetic  rustle  of  the  leaves,  swift  and  still,  keeping  the 
ground,  leaving  his  pursuers  far  behind ;  and,  leaping  upon 
a  rock  amid  the  woods,  he  sat  erect  and  listening,  with  his 
back  to  the  hunter.  For  a  moment  compassion  restrained 
the  latter's  arm;  but  that  was  a  short-lived  mood,  and  as 
quick  as  thought  can  follow  thought  his  piece  was  levelled, 
and  whang  !  —  the  fox,  rolling  over  the  rock,  lay  dead  on 
the  ground.  The  hunter  still  kept  his  place  and  listened  to 
the  hounds.  Still  on  they  came,  and  now  the  near  woods 
resounded  through  all  their  aisles  with  their  demoniac  cry. 
At  length  the  old  hound  burst  into  view,  with  muzzle  to  the 
ground,  and  snapping  the  air  as  if  possessed,  and  ran  di- 
rectly to  the  rock ;  but  spying  the  dead  fox,  she  suddenly 
ceased  her  hounding,  as  if  struck  dumb  with  amazement, 
and  walked  round  and  round  him  in  silence;  and  one  by 
one  her  pups  arrived,  and,  like  their  mother,  were  sobered 
into  silence  by  the  mystery.  Then  the  hunter  came  for- 
ward and  stood  in  their  midst,  and  the  mystery  was  solved. 
They  waited  in  silence  while  he  skinned  the  fox,  then 
followed  the  brush  awhile,  and  at  length  turned  off  into  the 
woods  again.  That  evening  a  Weston  Squire  came  to  the 
Concord  hunter's  cottage  to  inquire  for  his  hounds,  and  told 
how  for  a  week  they  had  been  hunting  on  their  own  account 


250  HENRY  D.  THOREAU. 

from  Western  woods.  The  Concord  hunter  told  him  what 
he  knew,  and  offered  him  the  skin  ;  but  the  other  declined  it, 
and  departed.  He  did  not  find  his  hounds  that  night,  but 
the  next  day  learned  that  they  had  crossed  the  river  and 
put  up  at  a  farm-house  for  the  night,  whence,  having  been 
well  fed,  they  took  their  departure  early  in  the  morning. 

The  hunter  who  told  me  this  could  remember  one  Sam 
Nutting,  who  used  to  hunt  bears  on  Fair  Haven  Ledges, 
and  exchange  their  skins  for  rum  in  Concord  village  ;  who 
told  him,  even,  that  he  had  seen  a  moose  there.  Nutting 
had  a  famous  fox-hound  named  Burgoyne,  —  he  pronounced 
it  Engine,  —  which  my  informant  used  to  borrow.  In  the 
"  Wast  Book  "  of  an  old  trader  of  this  town,  who  was  also 
a  captain,  town-clerk,  and  representative,  I  find  the  following 
entry.  Jan.  18th,  1742-3,  "John  Mclven  Cr.  by  1  Grey 
Fox  0  —  2  —  3  "  ;  they  are  not  now  found  here  ;  and  in 
his  ledger,  Feb.  7th,  1743,  Hezekiah  Stratton  has  credit 
"  by  >2  a  Catt  skin  0  —  1  —  4  £  "  ;  of  course,  a  wild-cat,  for 
Stratton  was  a  sergeant  in  the  old  French  war,  and  would 
not  have  got  credit  for  hunting  less  noble  game.  Credit  is 
given  for  deer-skins  also,  and  they  were  daily  sold.  One 
man  still  preserves  the  horns  of  the  last  deer  that  was  killed 
in  this  vicinity,  and  another  has  told  me  the  particular!  of 
the  hunt,  in  which  his  uncle  was  engaged.  The  hunters 
were  formerly  a  numerous  and  merry  crew  here.  I  remem- 
ber well  one  gaunt  Nimrod  who  would  catch  up  a  loaf  by 
the  roadside  and  play  a  strain  on  it  wilder  and  more 
melodious,  if  my  memory  serves  me,  than  any  hunting- 
horn. 

At  midnight,  when  there  was  a  moon,  I  sometimes  met 
with  hounds  in  my  path  prowling  about  the  woods,  which 
would  skulk  out  of  my  way,  as  if  afraid,  and  stand  silent 
amid  the  bushes  till  I  had  passed. 

Squirrels  and  wild  mice  disputed  for  my  store  of  nut?.. 
There  were  scores  of  pitch-pines  around  my  house,  froo> 


WINTER  ANIMALS  IN  THE  WOODS  251 

one  to  four  inches  in  diameter,  which  had  been  gnawed  by 
mice  the  previous  winter,  —  a  Norwegian  winter  for  them, 
for  the  snow  lay  long  and  deep,  and  they  were  obliged  to 
mix  a  large  proportion  of  pine  bark  with  their  other  diet. 
These  trees  were  alive  and  apparently  flourishing  at  mid 
summer,  and  many  of  them  had  grown  a  foot,  though  com- 
pletely girdled  ;  but  after  another  winter  such  were  without 
exception  dead.  It  is  remarkable  that  a  single  mouse  should 
thus  be  allowed  a  whole  pine-tree  for  its  dinner,  gnawing 
round  instead  of  up  and  down  it ;  but  perhaps  it  is  neces- 
sary in  order  to  thin  these  trees,  which  are  wont  to  grow 
up  densely. 

The  hares  (Lepus  Americanus)  were  very  familiar. 
One  had  her  form  under  my  house  all  winter,  separated 
from  me  only  by  the  flooring,  and  she  startled  me  each 
morning  by  her  hasty  departure  when  I  began  to  stir,  — 
thump,  thump,  thump,  striking  her  head  against  the  floor- 
timbers  in  her  hurry.  They  used  to  come  round  my  door 
at  dusk  to  nibble  the  potato-parings  which  I  had  thrown  out, 
and  were  so  nearly  the  color  of  the  ground  that  they  could 
hardly  be  distinguished  when  still.  Sometimes  in  the  twi- 
light I  alternately  lost  and  recovered  sight  of  one  sitting 
motionless  under  my  window.  When  I  opened  my  door  in 
the  evening,  off  they  would  go  with  a  squeak  and  a  bounce. 
Near  at  hand  they  only  excited  my  pity.  One  evening  one 
sat  by  my  door,  two  paces  from  me,  at  first  trembling  with 
fear,  yet  unwilling  to  move;  a  poor  wee  thing,  lean  and 
bony,  with  ragged  ears  and  sharp  nose,  scant  tail  and  slen- 
der paws.  It  looked  as  if  Nature  no  longer  contained  the 
breed  of  nobler  bloods,  but  stood  on  her  last  toes.  Its 
large  eyes  appeared  young  and  unhealthy,  almost  dropsical. 
I  took  a  step,  and  lo !  away  it  scud  with  an  elastic  spring 
over  the  snow-crust,  straightening  its  body  and  its  limbs 
into  graceful  length,  and  soon  put  the  forest  between  me  and 
itself,  —  the  wild,  free  venison  asserting  its  vigor  and  the 


252  HENRY  D.  THOREAU. 

dignity  of  Nature.  Not  without  reason  was  its  slenderness. 
Such,  then,  was  its  nature.  (Lepus,  levipes,  light-foot,  some 
think.) 

What  is  a  country  without  rabbits  and  partridges  ?  They 
are  among  the  most  simple  and  indigenous  animal  products  ; 
ancient  and  venerable  families  known  to  antiquity  as  to 
modern  times ;  of  the  very  hue  and  substance  of  Nature, 
nearest  allied  to  leaves  and  to  the  ground,  —  and  to  one 
another ;  it  is  either  winged  or  it  is  legged.  It  is  hardly  as 
if  you  had  seen  a  wild  creature  when  a  rabbit  or  a  partridge 
bursts  away,  only  a  natural  one,  as  much  to  be  expected  as 
rustling  leaves.  The  partridge  and  the  rabbit  are  still  sure 
to  thrive,  like  true  natives  of  the  soil,  whatever  revolutions 
occur.  If  the  forest  is  cut  off,  the  sprouts  and  bushes 
which  spring  up  afford  them  concealment,  and  they  become 
more  numerous  than  ever.  That  must  be  a  poor  country 
indeed  that  does  not  support  a  hare.  Our  woods  teem  with 
them  both,  and  around  every  swamp  may  be  seen  the 
partridge  or  rabbit  walk,  beset  with  twiggy  fences  and 
horse-hair  snares,  which  some  cow-boy  tends. 


HOME,    WOUNDED 

BY  SYDNEY  DOBELL. 


WHEEL  me  into  the  sunshine, 
Wheel  me  into  the  shadow, 
There  must  be  leaves  on  the  woodbine, 
Is  the  king-cup  crowned  in  the  meadow? 

Wheel  me  down  to  the  meadow, 

Down  to  the  little  river, 

In  sun  or  in  shadow 

I  shall  not  dazzle  or  shiver, 

I  shall  be  happy  anywhere, 

Every  breath  of  the  morning  air 

Makes  me  throb  and  quiver. 

Stay  wherever  you  will, 

By  the  mount  or  under  the  hill, 

Or  down  by  the  little  river : 

Stay  as  long  as  you  please, 

Give  me  only  a  bud  from  the  trees, 

Or  a  blade  of  grass  in  morning  dew, 

Or  a  cloudy  violet  clearing  to  blue, 

I  could  look  on  it  forever. 

Wheel,  wheel  through  the  sunshine, 
Wheel,  wheel  through  the  shadow ; 


254  SYDNEY  DOBELL. 

There  must  be  odors  round  the  pine, 
There  must  be  balm  of  breathing  kine, 
Somewhere  down  in  the  meadow. 
Must  I  choose  ?     Then  anchor  me  there 
Beyond  the  beckoning  poplars,  where 
The  larch  is  snooding  her  flowery  hair 
With  wreaths  of  morning  shadow. 

Among  the  thicket  hazels  of  the  brake 

Perchance  some  nightingale  doth  shake 

His  feathers,  and  the  air  is  full  of  song ; 

In  those  old  days  when  I  was  young  and  strong, 

He  used  to  sing  on  yonder  garden  tree, 

Beside  the  nursery. 

Ah,  I  remember  how  I  loved  to  wake, 

And  find  him  singing  on  the  self-same  bough 

(I  know  it  even  now) 

Where,  since  the  flit  of  bat, 

In  ceaseless  voice  he  sat, 

Trying  the  spring  night  over,  like  a  tune. 

Beneath  the  vernal  moon  ; 

And  while  I  listed  long, 

Day  rose,  and  still  he  sang, 

And  ah1  his  stanchless  song, 

As  something  falling  unaware, 

Fell  out  of  the  tall  trees  he  sang  among, 

Fell  ringing  down  the  ringing  morn,  and  rang,  — 

Rang  like  a  golden  jewel  down  a  golden  stair. 

•  Is  it  too  early  ?    I  hope  not 
But  wheel  me  to  the  ancient  oak, 
On  this  side  of  the  meadow ; 
Let  me  hear  the  raven's  croak 
Loosened  to  an  amorous  note 
In  the  hollow  shadow. 


HOME,  WOUNDED.  25o 

Let  me  see  the  winter  'snake 
Thawing  all  his  frozen  rings 
On  the  bank  where  the  wren  sings. 
Let  me  hear  the  little  bell, 
Where  the  red-wing,  topmast  high, 
Looks  toward  the  northern  sky, 
And  jangles  his  farewell. 
Let  us  rest  by  the  ancient  oak, 
And  see  his  net  of  shadow, 
His  net  of  barren  shadow, 
Like  those  wrestlers*  nets  of  old, 
Hold  the  winter  dead  and  cold, 
Hoary  winter,  white  and  cold, 
While  all  is  green  in  the  meadow. 

And  when  you  've  rested,  brother  mine, 

Take  me  over  the  meadow ; 

Take  me  along  the  level  crown 

Of  the  bare  and  silent  down, 

And  stop  by  the  ruined  tower. 

On  its  green  scarp,  by  and  by, 

I  shall  smell  the  flowering  thyme, 

On  its  wall  the  wall-flower. 

In  the  tower  there  used  to  be 

A  solitary  tree. 

Take  me  there,  for  the  dear  sake 

Of  those  old  days  wherein  I  loved  to  lie 

And  pull  the  melilote, 

And  look  across  the  valley  to  the  sky, 

And  hear  the  joy  that  filled  the  warm  wide  hoar 

Bubble  from  the  thrush's  throat, 

As  into  a  shining  mere 

Rills  some  rillet  trebling  clear, 

And  speaks  the  silent  silver  of  the  lake. 

There  'mid  cloistering  tree-roots,  year  by  year, 


256  SYDNEY  DOBELL. 

The  hen-thrash  sat,  and  he,  her  lief  and  dear, 
Among  the  boughs  did  make 
A  ceaseless  music  of  her  married  time, 
And  all  the  ancient  stones  grew  sweet  to  hear, 
And  answered  him  in  the  unspoken  rhyme 
Of  gracious  forms  most  musical 
That  tremble  on  the  wall 
And  trim  its  age  with  airy  fantasies 
That  flicker  in  the  sun,  and  hardly  seem 
As  if  to  be  beheld  were  all, 
And  only  to  our  eyes 
They  rise  and  fall, 
And  fall  and  rise, 

Sink  down  like  silence,  or  a-sudden  stream 
As  wind-blown  on  the  wind  as  streams  a  wedding-chime. 

But  you  are  wheeling  me  while  I  dream, 
And  we  've  almost  reached  the  meadow  I 
You  may  wheel  me  fast  through  the  sunshine, 
You  may  wheel  me  fast  through  the  shadow, 
But  wheel  me  slowly,  brother  mine, 
Through  the  green  of  the  sappy  meadow ; 
For  the  sun,  these  days  have  been  so  fine, 
Must  have  touched  it  over  with  celandine, 
And  the  southern  hawthorn,  I  divine, 
Sheds  a  muffled  shadow. 

There  blows 

The  first  primrose, 

Under  the  bare  bank  roses : 

There  is  but  one, 

And  the  bank  is  brown, 

But  soon  the  children  will  come  down, 

The  ringing  children  come  singing  down, 

To  pick  their  Easter  posies, 


HOME,  WOUNDED.  257 

And  they  '11  spy  it  out,  my  beautiful, 
Among  the  bare  brier-roses ; 
And  when  I  sit  here  again  alone, 
The  bare  brown  bank  will  be  blind  and  dull, 
Alas  for  Easter  posies ! 
But  when  the  din  is  over  and  gone, 
Like  an  eye  that  opens  after  pain, 
I  shall  see  my  pale  flower  shining  again ; 
Like  a  fair  star  after  a  gust  of  rain 
I  shall  see  my  pale  flower  shining  again ; 
Like  a  glow-worm  after  the  rolling  wain 
Hath  shaken  darkness  down  the  lane 
I  shall  see  my  pale  flower  shining  again ; 
And  it  will  blow  here  for  two  months  more, 
And  it  will  blow  here  again  next  year, 
And  the  year  past  that,  and  the  year  beyond ; 
And  through  all  the  years  till  my  years  are  o'er 
I  shall  always  find  it  here. 
Shining  across  from  the  bank  above, 
Shining  up  from  the  pond  below, 
Ere  a  water-fly  wimple  the  silent  pond, 
Or  the  first  green  weed  appear. 
And  I  shall  sit  here  under  the  tree, 
And  as  each  slow  bud  uncloses, 
I  shall  see  it  brighten  and  brighten  to  me, 
From  among  the  leafing  brier-roses, 
The  leaning  leafing  roses, 
As  at  eve  the  leafing  shadows  grow, 
And  the  star  of  light  and  love 
Draweth  near  o'er  her  airy  glades, 
Draweth  near  through  her  heavenly  shades, 
As  a  maid  through  a  myrtle  grove. 
And  the  flowers  will  multiply, 
As  the  stars  come  blossoming  over  the  sky, 
The  bank  will  blossom,  the  waters  blow, 
17 


258  SYDNEY  DOBELL. 

Till  the  singing  children  hitherward  hie 

To  gather  May-day  posies ; 

And  the  bank  will  be  bare  wherever  they  go, 

As  dawn,  the  primrose-girl,  goes  by, 

And  alas  for  heaven's  primroses ! 

Blare  the  trumpet,  and  boom  the  gun, 
But,  oh !  to  sit  here  thus  in  the  sun, 
To  sit  here  feeling  my  work  is  done, 
While  the  sands  of  life  so  golden  run, 
And  I  watch  the  children's  posies, 
And  my  idle  heart  is  whispering, 
"  Bring  whatever  the  years  may  bring, 
The  flowers  will  blossom,  the  birds  will  sing, 
And  there  '11  always  be  primroses." 

Looking  before  me  here  in  the  sun, 
I  see  the  Aprils  one  after  one, 
Primrosed  Aprils  one  by  one, 
Primrosed  Aprils  on  and  on, 
Till  the  floating  prospect  closes 
In  golden  glimmers  that  rise  and  rise, 
And  perhaps  are  gleams  of  Paradise, 
And  perhaps  —  too  far  for  mortal  eyes  — 
New  years  of  fresh  primroses, 
Years  of  earth's  primroses, 
Springs  to  be,  and  springs  for  me 
Of  distant,  dim  primroses. 

My  soul  lies  out  like  a  basking  hound, 

A  hound  that  dreams  and  dozes ; 

Along  my  life  my  length  I  lay, 

I  fill  to-morrow  and  yesterday, 

I  am  warm  with  the  suns  that  have  long  since  set, 

I  am  warm  with  the  summers  that  are  not  yet, 


HOME,  WOUNDED.  259 

And  like  one  who  dreams  and  dozes 

Softly  afloat  on  a  sunny  sea, 

Two  worlds  are  whispering  over  me, 

And  there  blows  a  wind  of  roses 

From  the  backward  shore  to  the  shore  before, 

From  the  shore  before  to  the  backward  shore, 

And  like  two  clouds  that  meet  and  pour, 

Each  through  each,  till  core  in  core 

A  single  self  reposes, 

The  nevermore  with  the  evermore 

Above  me  mingles  and  closes ; 

As  my  soul  lies  out  like  the  basking  hound, 

And  wherever  it  lies  seems  happy  ground, 

And  when,  awakened  by  some  sweet  sound, 

A  dreamy  eye  uncloses, 

I  see  a  blooming  world  around 

And  I  lie  amid  primroses,  — 

Years  of  sweet  primroses, 

Springs  of  fresh  primroses, 

Springs  to  be,  and  springs  for  me 

Of  distant,  dim  primroses. 

O  to  lie  a-dream,  a-dream, 

To  feel  I  may  dream  and  to  know  you  deem 

My  work  is  done  forever, 

And  the  palpitating  fever 

That  gains  and  loses,  loses  and  gains, 
And  beats  the  huriying  blood  on  the  brunt  of  a  thousand  pains 

Cooled  at  once  by  that  blood-let 

Upon  the  paparet ; 
And  all  the  tedious  tasked  toil  of  the  difficult  long  endeavar 

Solved  and  quit  by  no  more  fine 

Than  these  limbs  of  mine, 

Spanned  and  measured  once  for  all 

By  that  right  hand  I  lost, 


260  SYDNEY  DOBELL. 

Bought  up  at  so  light  a  cost 

As  one  bloody  fall 

On  a  soldier's  bed, 

And  three  days  on  the  ruined  wall 

Among  the  thirstless  dead. 


o 


O  to  think  my  name  is  crost 

From  duty's  muster-roll ; 

That  I  may  slumber  though  the  clarion  call, 

And  live  the  joy  of  an  embodied  soul 

Free  as  a  liberated  ghost. 

O  to  feel  a  life  of  deed 

Was  emptied  out  to  feed 

That  fire  of  pain  that  burned  so  brief  a  while,  — 

That  fire  from  which  I  come,  as  the  dead  come 

Forth  from  the  irreparable  tomb, 

Or  as  a  martyr  on  his  funeral  pile 

Heaps  up  the  burdens  other  men  do  bear 

Through  years  of  segregated  care, 

And  takes  the  total  load 

Upon  his  shoulders  broad, 

And  steps  from  earth  to  God. 

O  to  think,  through  good  or  ill, 

Whatever  I  am  you  '11  love  me  still ; 

O  to  think,  though  dull  I  be, 

You  that  are  so  grand  and  free, 

You  that  are  so  bright  and  gay, 

Will  pause  to  hear  me  when  I  will, 

As  though  my  head  were  gray ;     . 

And  though  there  's  little  I  can  say, 

Each  will  look  kind  with  honor  while  he  hears. 

And  to  your  loving  ears 

My  thoughts  will  halt  with  honorable  scars, 

And  when  my  dark  voice  stumbles  with  the  weight 


HOME,  WOUNDED.  261 

Of  what  it  doth  relate 

(Like  tha  .  blind  comrade  —  blinded  in  the  wars  — * 

Who  bore  the  one-eyed  brother  that  was  lame), 

You  '11  remember  't  is  the  same 

That  cried,  "  Follow  me," 

Upon  a  summer's  day ; 

And  I  shall  understand  with  unshed  tears 

This  great  reverence  that  I  see, 

And  bless  the  day  —  and  Thee, 

Lord  God  of  victory ! 

And  she, 

Perhaps  O  even  she 

May  look  as  she  looked  when  I  knew  her 

In  those  old  days  of  childish  sooth, 

Ere  my  boyhood  dared  to  woo  her. 

I  will  not  seek  to  sue  her, 

For  I  'm  neither  fonder  nor  truer 

Than  when  she  slighted  my  lovelorn  youth, 

My  giftless,  graceless,  guinealess  truth, 

And  I  only  lived  to  rue  her. 

But  I  '11  never  love  another, 

And,  in  spite  of  her  lovers  and  lands, 

She  shall  love  me  yet,  my  brother ! 

As  a  child  that  holds  by  his  mother, 
While  his  mother  speaks  his  praises, 
Holds  with  eager  hands, 
And  ruddy  and  silent  stands 
In  the  ruddy  and  silent  daisies, 
And  hears  her  bless  her  boy, 
And  lifts  a  wondering  joy, 
So  I  '11  not  seek  nor  sue  her, 
But  I  '11  leave  my  glory  to  woo  her, 
And  I  '11  stand  like  a  child  beside, 
And  from  behind  the  purple  pride 


262  SYDNEY  DOBELL. 

I  '11  lift  my  eyes  unto  her, 

And  I  shall  not  be  denied. 

And  you  will  love  her,  brother  dear, 

And  perhaps  next  year  you  '11  bring  me  here 

All  through  the  balmy  April-tide, 

And  she  will  trip  like  spring  by  my  side, 

And  be  all  the  birds  to  my  ear. 

And  here  all  three  we  '11  sit  in  the  sun, 

And  see  the  Aprils  one  by  one, 

Primrosed  Aprils  on  and  on, 

Till  the  floating  prospect  closes 

In  golden  glimmers  that  rise  and  rise, 

And  perhaps,  are  gleams  of  Paradise, 

And  perhaps,  too  far  for  mortal  eyes, 

New  springs  of  fresh  primroses, 

Springs  of  earth's  primroses, 

Springs  to  be  and  springs  for  me, 

Of  distant  dim  primroses. 


THOUGHTS  FROM  THE  ARCADIA. 

BY  SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY. 

«  /""^  IVE  tribute,  but  not  oblation,  to  human  wisdom/' 

\Jf     "  Longer  I  would  not  wish  to  draw  breath,  than  1 
may  keep  myself  unspotted  of  any  heinous  crime." 

"  In  the  clear  mind  of  virtue  treason  can  find  no  hiding- 
place." 

"  The  only  disadvantage  of  an  honest  heart  is  credulity." 

"The  hero's  soul  may  be  separated  from  his  body,  but 
never  alienated  from  the  remembrance  of  virtue." 

"  Doing  good  is  the  only  certainly  happy  action  of  a 
man's  life." 

"  The  journey  of  high  honor  lies  not  in  smooth  ways." 

"Who  shoots  at  the  midday  sun,  though  he  is  sure  he 
sfcall  never  hit  the  mark,  yet  as  sure  he  is  that  he  shall 
shoot  higher  than  he  who  aims  but  at  a  bush." 

"  Remember  that  in  all  miseries,  lamenting  becomes  fools, 
and  action,  the  wise." 

"The  great,  in  affliction,  bear  a  countenance  more  prince- 
ly than  they  were  wont;  for  it  is  the  temper  of  highest 
hearts,  like  the  palm-tree,  to  strive  most  upward  when  it  is 
most  burdened." 

"The  perfect  hero  passeth  through  the  multitude  as  a 
man  that  neither  disdains  a  people",  nor  yet  is  anything 
tickled  with  their  flattery." 

"In  a  brave  bosom,  honor  cannot  be  rocked  asleep  by 
affection." 


264  SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY. 

"  Contention  for  trifles  can  get  but  a  trifling  victory." 
"  Prefer  truth,  before  the  maintaining  of  an  opinion." 
"A  man  of  true  honor  thinks  himself  greater  in  being 
subject  to  his  word  given,  than  in  being  lord  of  a  princi- 
pality." 

"  Joyful  is  woe  for  a  noble  cause,  and  welcome  all  its  mis- 
eries." 

"  There  is  nothing  evil  but  what  is  within  us ;  the  rest  is 
either  natural  or  accidental." 

"  While  there  is  hope  left,  let  not  the  weakness  of  sorrow 
make  the  strength  of  resolution  languish." 

"  Who  frowns  at  others'  feasts,  had  better  bide  away." 
"  Friendship  is  so  rare,  as  it  is  to  be  doubted  whether  it 
be  a  thing  indeed,  or  but  a  word." 

"  Prefer  your  friend's  profit  before  your  own  desire." 
"  A  just  man  hateth  the  evil,  but  not  the  evil-doer." 
"  One  look  (in  a  clear  judgment)  from  a  fair  and  virtuous 
woman  is  more  acceptable  than  all  the  kindnesses  so  prodi- 
gally bestowed  by  a  wanton  beauty." 

"It  is  folly  to  believe  that  he  can  faithfully  love  who 
does  not  love  faithfulness." 

"  Who  doth  desire  that  his  wife  should  be  chaste,  first  be 
he  true;  for  truth  doth  deserve  truth." 

"  It  is  no  less  vain  to  wish  death  than  it  i?  cowardly  to 
fear  it." 

"  Everything  that  is  mine,  even  to  my  life,  i*  Ws  I  love, 
but  the  secret  of  my  friend  is  not  mine" 


THE  KHINE, 

BY  LORD  BYRON. 

THE  castled  crag  of  Drachenfels 
Frowns  o'er  the  wide  and  winding  Rhine, 
Whose  breast  of  waters  broadly  swells 

Between  the  banks  which  bear  the  vine, 
And  hills  all  rich  with  blossomed  trees, 

And  fields  which  promise  corn  and  wine, 
And  scattered  cities  crowning  these, 

Whose  far  white  walls  along  them  shine, 
Have  strewed  a  scene,  which  I  should  see 
With  double  joy  wert  thou  with  me. 

And  peasant  girls  with  deep-blue  eyes, 

And  hands  which  offer  early  flowers, 
Walk  smiling  o'er  this  paradise ; 

Above,  the  frequent  feudal  towers 
Through  green  leaves  lift  their  walls  of  gray, 

And  many  a  rock  which  steeply  lowers, 
And  noble  arch  in  proud  decay, 

Look  o'er  this  vale  of  vintage- bowers  ; 
But  one  thing  wants  these  banks  of  Rhine,  — 
Thy  gentle  hand  to  clasp  in  mine ! 

I  send  the  lilies  given  to  me : 

Though  long  before  thy  hand  they  touch 
I  know  that  they  must  withered  be, 

But  yet  reject  them  not  as  such ; 


266  LORD  BYRON. 

For  I  have  cherished  them  as  dear, 
Because  they  yet  may  meet  thine  eye, 

And  guide  thy  soul  to  mine  even  here, 
When  thou  behold'st  them  drooping  nigh, 

And  know'st  them  gathered  by  the  Rhine, 

And  offered  from  my  heart  to  thine ! 

The  river  nobly  foams  and  flows, 

The  charm  of  this  enchanted  ground, 
And  all  its  thousand  turns  disclose  f 

Some  fresher  beauty  varying  round : 
The  haughtiest  breast  its  wish  might  bound 

Through  life  to  dwell  delighted  here ; 
Nor  could  on  earth  a  spot  be  found 

To  nature  and  to  me  so  dear, 
Could  thy  dear  eyes  in  following  mine 
Still  sweet  more  these  banks  of  Rhine ! 


A  WOMAN. 

BY  ROSE  TERRY. 

"  Not  perfect,  nay !  but  fall  of  tender  wants."  —  Tne  Pnnceu. 

I  SAT  by  my  window  sewing,  one  bright  autumn  day, 
thinking  much  of  twenty  other  tilings,  and  very  lit- 
tle of  the  long  seam  that  slipped  away  from  under  my 
fingers  slowly,  but  steadily,  when  I  heard  the  front  door 
open  with  a  quick  push,  and  directly  into  my  open  door 
entered  Laura  Lane,  with  a  degree  of  impetus  that  ex- 
plained the  previous  sound  in  the  hall.  She  threw  herself 
into  a  chair  before  me,  flung  her  hat  on  the  floor,  threw 
her  shawl  across  the  window-sill,  and  looked  at  me  with- 
out speaking :  hi  fact,  she  was  quite  too  much  out  of  breath 
to  speak. 

I  was  used  to  Laura's  impetuousness ;  so  I  only  smiled, 
and  said,  "  Good  morning." 

"  Oh ! "  said  Laura,  with  a  long  breath,  "  I  have  got  some- 
thing to  tell  you,  Sue." 

"  That 's  nice,"  said  I ;  "  news  is  worth  double  here  in  the 
country ;  tell  me  slowly,  to  prolong  the  pleasure." 

"You  must  guess  first.  I  want  to  have  you  try  your 
powers  for  once ;  guess,  do ! " 

"Mr.  Lincoln  defeated?" 

"0  no,  —  at  least  not  that  I  know  of;  all  the  returns 
from  this  State  are  not  in  yet,  of  course  not  from  the 
others ;  besides,  do  you  think  I  'd  make  such  a  fuss  about 
politics?" 


268  ROSE  TERRY. 

"You  might,"  said  I,  thinking  of  all  the  beautiful  and 
brilliant  women  that  in  other  countries  and  other  tunes  had 
made  "  fuss  "  more  potent  than  Laura's  about  politics. 

"But  I  should  n't,"  retorted  she. 

"  Then  there  is  a  new  novel  out  ?  " 

"No!"  (with  great  indignation). 

"  Or  the  parish  have  resolved  to  settle  Mr.  Hermann  ?  " 

"  How  stupid  you  are,  Sue !  Everybody  knew  that  yes- 
terday." 

"But  I  am  not  everybody." 

"  I  shall  have  tc  help  you,  I  see,"  sighed  Laura,  half  pro- 
voked. "  Somebody  is  going  to  be  married." 

"  Mademoiselle,  the  great.  Mademoiselle ! " 

Laura  stared  at  me.  I  ought  to  have  remembered  she 
was  eighteen,  and  not  likely  to  have  read  Sevigne*.  I  began 
more  seriously,  laying  down  my  seam. 

"  Is  it  anybody  I  know,  Laura  ?  " 

"  Of  course,  or  you  would  n't  care  about  it,  and  it  would 
be  no  fun  to  tell  you." 

"Is  it  you?" 

Laura  grew  indignant. 

"  Do  you  think  I  should  bounce  in,  in  this  way,  to  tell 
you  7  was  engaged  ?  " 

"  Why  not  ?  should  n't  you  be  happy  about  it  ?  " 

"Well,  if  I  were,  I  should  —  " 

Laura  dropped  her  beautiful  eyes  and  colored. 

"  The  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  am  sure  she  felt  as  much  strange,  sweet  shyness  sealing 
her  girlish  lips  at  that  moment  as  when  she  came,  very 
slowly  and  silently,  a  year  after,  to  tell  me  she  was  engaged 
to  Mr.  Hermann.     I  had  to  smile  and  sigh  both. 
"  Tell  me,  then,  Laura ;  for  I  cannot  guess." 
"  I  '11  tell  you  the  gentleman's  name,  and  perhaps  you  can 
guess  the  lady's  then :  it  is  Frank  Addison." 


A  WOMAN.  269 

"  Frank  Addison  !  "  echoed  I,  in  surprise  ;  for  this  young 
man  was  one  I  knew  and  loved  well,  and  I  could  not  think 
who  in  our  quiet  village  had  sufficient  attraction  for  his  fas- 
tidious taste. 

He  was  certainly  worth  marrying,  though  he  had  some 
fault?,  being  as  proud  as  was  endurable,  as  shy  as  a  child, 
and  altogether  endowed  with  a  full  appreciation,  to  say  the 
least,  of  his  own  charms  and  merits :  but  he  was  sincere 
and  loyal  and  tender ;  well  cultivated,  yet  not  priggish  or 
pedantic;  brave,  well-bred,  and  high-principled;  handsome 
besides.  I  knew  him  thoroughly ;  I  had  held  him  on  my 
lap,  fed  him  with  sugar-plums,  soothed  his  child-sorrows, 
and  scolded  his  naughtiness,  many  a  time ;  I  had  stood  with 
him  by  his  mother's  dying-bed  and  consoled  him  by  my  own 
tears,  for  his  mother  I  loved  dearly ;  so,  ever  since,  Frank 
had  been  both  near  and  dear  to  me,  for  a  mutual  sorrow  is 
a  tie  that  may  bind  together  even  a  young  man  and  an  old 
maid  in  close  and  kindly  friendship.  I  was  the  more  sur- 
prised at  his  engagement  because  I  thought  he  would  have 
been  the  first  to  tell  me  of  it ;  but  I  reflected  that  Laura 
was  his  cousin,  and  relationship  has  an  etiquette  of  prece- 
dence above  any  other  social  link. 

"  Yes,  —  Frank  Addison !  Now  guess,  Miss  Sue  !  for  he 
is  not  here  to  tell  you,  —  he  is  in  New  York ;  and  here  in 
my  pocket  I  have  got  a  letter  for  you,  but  you  sha'n't  have 
it  till  you  have  well  guessed." 

I  was,  —  I  am  ashamed  to  confess  it,  —  but  I  was  not  a 
little  comforted  at  hearing  of  that  letter.  One  may  shake 
up  a  woman's  heart  with  every  alloy  of  life,  grind,  break, 
scatter  it,  till  scarce  a  throb  of  its  youth  beats  there,  but  to 
its  last  bit  it  is  feminine  still ;  and  I  felt  a  sudden  sweetness 
of  relief  to  know  that  my  boy  had  not  forgotten  me. 

"  I  don't  know  whom  to  guess,  Laura ;  who  ever  marries 
after  other  people's  fancy  ?  If  I  were  to  guess  Sally  Hetb 
eridge,  I  might  come  as  near  as  I  shall  to  the  truth." 


270  ROSE  TERRY. 

Laura  laughed. 

"  You  know  better,"  said  she.  "  Frank  Addison  is  the 
last  man  to  marry  a  dried-up  old  tailoress." 

"  I  don't  know  that  he  is ;  according  to  his  theories  of 
women  and  marriage,  Sally  would  make  him  happy.  She 
is  true-hearted,  I  am  sure,  —  generous,  kind,  affectionate, 
sensible,  and  poor.  Frank  has  always  raved  about  the 
beauty  of  the  soul,  and  the  degradation  of  marrying  money, 
—  therefore,  Laura,  I  believe  he  is  going  to  marry  a  beauty 
and  an  heiress.  I  guess  Josephine  Bowen." 

"  Susan  ! "  exclaimed  Laura,  with  a  look  of  intense  aston- 
ishment, "  how  could  you  guess  it  ?  " 

"Then  it  is  she?" 

"  Yes,  it  is,  —  and  I  am  so  sorry !  such  a  childish,  gig- 
gling, silly  little  creature !  I  can't  think  how  Frank  could 
fancy  her ;  she  is  just  like  Dora  in  '  David  Copperfield,'  — 
a  perfect  gosling !  I  am  as  vexed  —  " 

"But  she  is  exquisitely  pretty." 

"  Pretty !  well,  that  is  all ;  he  might  as  well  have  bought 
a  nice  picture,  or  a  dolly !  I  am  out  of  all  patience  with 
Frank.  I  have  n't  the  heart  to  congratulate  him." 

"  Don't  be  unreasonable,  Laura  ;  when  you  get  as  old  as 
I  am,  you  will  discover  how  much  better  and  greater  facts 
are  than  theories.  It 's  all  very  well  for  men  to  say,  — 

1  Beauty  is  unripe  childhood's  cheat,  — 

the  soul  is  all  they  love,  —  the  fair,  sweet  character,  the 
lofty  mind,  the  tender  woman's  heart,  and  gentle  loveliness  ; 
but  when  you  come  down  to  the  statistics  of  love  and  mat- 
rimony, you  find  Sally  Hetheridge  at  sixty  an  old  maid,  and 
Miss  Bowen  at  nineteen  adored  by  a  dozen  men  and  en- 
gaged to  one.  No,  Laura,  if  I  had  ten  sisters,  and  a  fairy 
godmother  for  each,  I  should  request  that  ancient  dame  to 
endow  them  all  with  beauty  and  silliness,  sure  that  theL 
they  would  achieve  a  woman's  best  destiny,  —  a  home." 


A  WOMAN.  271 

Laura's  lace  burned  indignantly ;  she  hardly  let  me  finish 
before  she  exclaimed, — 

"  Susan  Lee !  I  am  ashamed  of  you  !  Here  are  you,  an 
old  maid,  as  happy  as  anybody,  decrying  all  good  gifts  to  a 
woman,  except  beauty,  because,  indeed,  they  stand  in  the 
way  of  her  marriage  !  as  if  a  woman  was  only  made  to  be 
a  housekeeper ! " 

Laura's  indignation  amused  me.     I  went  on,  — 

"  Yes,  I  am  happy  enough ;  but  I  should  have  been  much 
happier  had  I  married.  Don't  waste  your  indignation, 
dear  ;  you  are  pretty  enough  to  excuse  your  being  sensible, 
and  you  ought  to  agree  with  my  ideas,  because  they  excuse 
Frank,  and  yours  do  not." 

"  I  don't  want  to  excuse  him  ;  I  am  really  angry  about  it. 
I  can't  bear  to  have  Frank  throw  himself  away ;  she  is 
pretty  now,  but  what  will  she  be  in  ten  years  ?  " 

"  People  in  love  do  not  usually  enter  into  such  remote 
calculations ;  love  is  to-day's  delirium ;  it  has  an  element  of 
divine  faith  in  it,  in  not  caring  for  the  morrow.  But  Laura, 
we  can't  help  this  matter,  and  we  have  neither  of  us  any 
conscience  involved  in  it.  Miss  Bowen  may  be  better  than 
we  know.  At  any  rate,  Frank  is  happy,  and  that  ought  to 
satisfy  both  you  and  me  just  now." 

Laura's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  I  could  see  them  glisten 
on  the  dark  lashes,  as  she  affected  to  tie  her  hat,  all  the 
time  untying  it  as  fast  as  ever  the  knot  slid.  She  was  a 
sympathetic  little  creature,  and  loved  Frank  very  sincerely, 
having  known  him  as  long  as  she  could  remember.  She 
gave  me  a  silent  kiss,  and  went  away,  leaving  the  letter, 
yet  unopened,  lying  in  my  lap.  I  did  not  open  it  just  then. 
I  was  thinking  of  Josephine  Bowcn. 

Every  summer,  for  three  years,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bowen  had 
come  to  Ridgefield  for  country  air,  bringing  with  them  their 
adopted  daughter,  whose  baptismal  name  had  resigned  in 
favor  of  the  pet  appellation  "  Kitten,"  —  a  name  better 


272  ROSE  TERRY. 

adapted  to  her  nature  and  aspect  than  the  Imperatrice  ap- 
pellation  that  belonged   to    her.      She   was    certainly   aa 
charming  a  little  creature  as  ever  one  saw  in  flesh  and 
blood.     Her  sweet  child's-face,  her  dimpled,  fair  cheeks,  her 
rose-bud  of  a  mouth,  and  great,  wistful,   blue  eyes,  that 
'  laughed  like  flax-flowers  in  a  south  wind,  her  tiny,  round 
chin,  and  low,  white  forehead,  were  all  adorned  by  profuse 
rings  and  coils  and  curls  of  true  gold-yellow,  that  never 
would  grow  long,  or  be  braided,  or  stay  smooth,  or  do  any- 
thing but  ripple  and  twine  and  push  their  shining  tendrils 
out  of  every  bonnet  or  hat  or  hood  the  little  creature  wore, 
like  a  stray  parcel  of  sunbeams  that  would  shine.     Her  del- 
icate, tiny  figure  was  as  round  as  a  child's,  —  her  funny 
hands  as  quaint  as  some  fat  baby's,  with  short  fingers  and 
dimpled  knuckles.     She  was  a  creature  as  much  made  to  be 
petted  as  a  King  Charles  spaniel,  —  and  petted  she  was, 
far  beyond  any  possibility  of  a  crumpled  rose-leaf.     Mrs. 
Bowen  was  fat,  loving,  rather  foolish,  but  the  best  of  friends 
and  the  poorest  of  enemies ;  she  wanted  everybody  to  be 
happy  and  fat  and  well  as  she  was,  and  would  urge   the 
necessity  of  wine,  and  entire  idleness,  and  horse-exercise, 
upon  a  poor  minister,  just  as  honestly  and  energetically  as 
if  he  could  have  afforded  them :  an  idea  to  the  contrary 
never  crossed  her  mind   spontaneously,  but,  if  introduced 
there,  brought  forth  direct  results  of  bottles,  bank-bills,  and 
loans  of  ancient  horses,  only  to  be  checked  by  friendly  re  • 
monstrance,  or  the  suggestion  that  a  poor  man  might  be  also 
proud.     Mr.   Bowen  was  tall  and  spare,  a  man  of  much 
sense  and  shrewd  kindliness,  but  altogether  subject  and  sub- 
missive to  "  Kitten's "  slightest   wish.     She  never  wanted 
anything;  no  princess  in  a  story-book  had  less  to  desire; 
and  this  entire  spoiling  and  indulgence  seemed  to  her  only 
the  natural  course  of  things.     She  took  it  as  an  open  rose 
takes  sunshine,  with  so  much  simplicity,  and  heartiness,  and 
beaming  content,  and  perfume  of  sweet,  careless  affection, 


A  WOMAN.  273 

that  she  was  not  given  over  to  any  little  vanities  or  affecta- 
tions, but  was  always  a  dear,  good  little  child,  as  happy  as 
the  day  was  long,  and  quite  without  a  fear  or  apprehension. 
I  had  seen  very  little  of  her  in  those  three  summers,  for  I 
had  been  away  at  the  sea-side,  trying  to  fan  the  flickering 
life  that  alone  was  left  to  me  with  pungent  salt  breezes  and 
stinging  baptisms  of  spray,  but  I  had  liked  that  little  pretty 
well.  I  did  not  think  her  so  silly  as  Laura  did ;  she  seemed 
to  me  so  purely  simple,  that  I  sometimes  wondered  if  her 
honest  directness  and  want  of  guile  were  folly  or  not.  But 
I  liked  to  see  her,  as  she  cantered  past  my  door  on  her  pony, 
the  gold  tendrils  thick  clustered  about  her  throat  and  under 
the  brim  of  her  black  hat,  and  her  bright  blue  eyes  sparkling 
with  the  keen  air,  and  a  real  wild-rose  bloom  on  her  smiling 
face.  She  was  a  prettier  sight  even  than  my  profuse  chrys- 
anthemums, whose  masses  of  garnet  and  yellow  and  white 
nodded  languidly  to  the  autumn  winds  to-day. 

I  recalled  myself  from  this  dream  of  recollection,  better 
satisfied  with  Miss  Bowen  than  I  had  been  before.  I  could 
see  just  how  her  beauty  had  bewitched  Frank,  —  so  bright, 
so  tiny,  so  loving  :  one  always  wants  to  gather  a  little,  gay, 
odor-breathing  rose-bud  for  one's  own,  and  such  she  was  to 
him. 

So  then  I  opened  his  letter.  It  was  dry  and  stiff:  men's 
letters  almost  always  are  ;  they  cannot  say  what  they  feel ; 
they  will  be  fluent  of  statistics,  or  description,  or  philosophy, 
or  politics,  but  as  to  feeling,  —  there  they  are  dumb,  except 
in  real  love-letters,  and,  of  course,  Frank's  was  unsatisfac- 
tory accordingly.  Once,  toward  the  end,  came  out  a  natural 
sentence :  "  O  Sue !  if  you  knew  her,  you  would  n't  won- 
der ! "  So  he  had,  after  all,  felt  the  apology  he  would  not 
speak;  he  had  some  little  deference  left  for  his  deserted 
theories. 

"Well  I  knew  what  touched  his  pride,  and  struck  that 
little,  revealing  spark  from  his  deliberate  pen:  Josephine 
18 


274  ROSE  TERR*. 

Bowen  was  rich,  and  he  only  a  poor  lawyer  in  a  country 
town :  he  felt  it  even  in  this  first  flush  of  love,  and  to  that 
feeling  I  must  answer  when  I  wrote  him,  —  not  merely  to 
the  announcement,  and  the  delight,  and  the  man's  pride. 
So  I  answered  his  letter  at  once,  and  he  answered  mine  in 
person.  I  had  nothing  to  say  to  him,  when  I  saw  him ;  it 
was  enough  to  see  how  perfectly  happy  and  contented  he 
was,  —  how  the  proud,  restless  eyes  that  had  always  looked 
a  challenge  to  all  the  world  were  now  tranquil  to  their 
depths.  Nothing  had  interfered  with  his  passion.  Mrs. 
Bowen  liked  him  always,  Mr.  Bowen  liked  him  now ;  no- 
body had  objected,  it  had  not  occurred  to  anybody  to  object ; 
money  had  not  been  mentioned  any  more  than  it  would 
have  been,  in  Arcadia.  Strange  to  say,  the  good,  simple 
woman,  and  the  good,  shrewd  man  had  both  divined  Frank's 
peculiar  sensitiveness,  and  respected  it. 

There  was  no  period  fixed  for  the  engagement,  it  was  in- 
definite as  yet,  and  the  winter,  with  all  its  excitements  of 
South  and  North,  passed  by  at  length,  and  the  first  of  April 
the  Bowens  moved  out  to  Eidgefield.  It  was  earlier  than 
usual;  but  the  city  was  crazed  with  excitement,  and  Mr. 
Bowen  was  tried  and  worn ;  he  wanted  quiet.  Then  I  saw 
a  great  deal  of  Josephine,  and  in  spite  of  Laura,  and  her 
still  restless  objections  to  the  child's  childish,  laughing,  incon- 
sequent manner,  I  grew  into  liking  her:  not  that  there 
seemed  any  great  depth  to  her ;  she  was  not  specially  intel- 
lectual, or  witty,  or  studious,  or  practical ;  she  did  not  try 
to  be  anything :  perhaps  that  was  her  charm  to  me.  I  had 
seen  so  many  women  laboring  at  themselves  to  be  some- 
thing, that  one  who  was  content  to  live  without  thinking 
about  it  was  a  real  phenomenon  to  me.  Nothing  bores  me 
(though  I  be  stoned  for  the  confession,  I  must  make  it ! ) 
more  than  a  woman  who  is  bent  on  improving  her  mind,  or 
forming  her  manners,  or  moulding  her  character,  or  watch- 
ing her  motives,  with  that  deadly-lively  conscientiousness 


A  WOMAN.  275 

that  makes  so  many  good  people  disagreeable.  Why  can't 
they  consider  the  lilies,  which  grow  by  receiving  sun  and 
air  and  dew  from  God,  and  not  hopping  about  over  the  lots 
to  find  the  warmest  comer  or  the  wettest  hollow,  to  see 
how  much  bigger  and  brighter  they  can  grow  ?  It  was  real 
rest  to  me  to  have  this  tiny,  bright  creature  come  in  to  me 
every  day  during  Frank's  office-hours  as  unintentionally  as 
a  yellow  butterfly  would  come  in  at  the  window.  Some- 
times she  strayed  to  the  kitchen-porch,  and,  resting  her 
elbows  on  the  window-sill  and  her  chin  on  both  palms,  looked 
at  me  with  wondering  eyes  while  I  made  bread  or  cake ; 
sometimes  she  came  by  the  long  parlor-window,  and  sat 
down  on  a  bi-ioche  at  my  feet  while  I  sewed,  talking  in  her 
direct,  unconsidered  way,  so  fresh,  and  withal  so  good  and 
pure,  I  came  to  thinking  the  day  very  dull  that  did  not 
bring  "Kitten"  to  see  me. 

The  nineteenth  of  April,  in  the  evening,  my  door  opened 
again  with  an  impetuous  bang ;  but  this  tune  it  was  Frank 
Addison,  his  eyes  blazing,  his  dark  cheek  flushed,  his  whole 
aspect  fired  and  furious. 

• "  Good  God,  Sue !  do  you  know  what  they  Ve  done  in 
Baltimore  ?  " 

"  What  ? "  said  I,  in  vague  terror,  for  I  had  been  an 
alarmist  from  the  first :  I  had  once  lived  at  the  South. 

"  Fired  on  a  Massachusetts  regiment,  and  killed  —  nobody 
knows  how  many  yet-;  but  killed,  and  wounded." 

I  could  not  speak :  it  was  the  lighted  train  of  a  powder- 
magazine  burning  before  my  eyes.  Frank  began  to  walk 
up  and  down  the  room. 

"  I  must  go  !  I  must !  I  must !  "  came  involuntarily  from 
his  working  lips. 

"  Frank !  Frank !  remember  Josephine." 

It  was  a  cowardly  thing  to  do,  but  I  did  it.  Frank  turned 
ghastly  white,  and  sat  down  in  a  chair  opposite  me.  I 
had  for  the  moment  quenched  his  ardor ;  he  looked  at  me 
with  anxious  eyes«  and  drew  a  long  sigh,  almost  a  groan. 


276  ROSE  TERKY. 

"  Josephine !  "  he  ^aid,  as  if  the  name  were  new  to  him, 
so  vitally  did  the  idea  seize  all  his  faculties. 

"  Well,  dear  ! "  said  a  sweet  little  voice  at  the  door. 

Frank  turned,  and  seemed  to  see  a  ghost ;  for  there  in 
the  doorway  stood  "  Kitten,"  her  face  perhaps  a  shade 
calmer  than  ordinary,  swinging  in  one  hand  the  tasselled 
hood  she  wore  of  an  evening,  and  holding  her  shawl  togeth 
er  with  the  other.  Over  her  head  we  discerned  the  spare, 
upright  shape  of  Mr.  Bowen,  looking  grim  and  penetrative, 
but  not  unkindly. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  went  on  the  little  lady. 

Nobody  answered,  but  Frank  and- 1  looked  at  each  other. 
She  came  in  now  and  went  toward  him,  Mr.  Bowen  follow- 
ing at  a  respectful  distance,  as  if  he  were  her  footman. 

"  I  've  been  looking  for  you  everywhere,"  said  she,  with 
the  slightest  possible  suggestion  of  reserve,  or  perhaps  ti- 
midity, in  her  voice.  "  Father  went  first  for  me,  and  when 
you  were  not  at  Laura's  or  the  office,  or  the  post-office,  or 
Mrs.  Sledge's,  then  I  knew  you  were  here ;  so  I  came  with 
him,  because  —  because  "  —  she  hesitated  the  least  bit  here 
—  «  we  love  Sue." 

Frank  still  looked  at  her  with  his  soul  in  his  eyes,  as  if 
he  wanted  to  absorb  her  utterly  into  himself  and  then  die 
I  never  saw  such  a  look  before ;  I  hope  I  never  may  again  , 
it  haunts  me  to  this  day. 

I  can  pause  now  to  recall  and  reason  about  the  curious, 
exalted  atmosphere  that  seemed  suddenly  to  have  surround- 
ed us,  as  if  bare  spirits  communed  there,  not  flesh  and 
blood.  Frank  did  not  move ;  he  sat  and  looked  at  her 
standing  near  him,  so  near  that  her  shawl  trailed  against 
his  chair ;  but  presently  when  she  wanted  to  grasp  some- 
thing, she  moved  aside  and  took  Ijold  of  another  chair,  — • 
not  his  :  it  was  a  little  thing,  but  it  interpreted  her. 

"  Well  ? v  said  he  in  a  hoarse  tone. 

Just  then  she  moved,  as  I  said,  and  laid  one  hand  on 


A  WOMAN.  277 

the  back  of  a  chair  :  it  was  the  only  symptom  of  emotion 
she  show  ed ;  her  voice  was  as  childish-clear  and  steady 
as  before. 

"  You  want  to  go,  Frank,  and  I  thought  you  would  rather 
be  married  to  me  first ;  so  I  came  to  find  you  and  tell  you 
I  would." 

Frank  sprang  to  his  feet  like  a  shot  man ;  I  cried ;  Jose- 
phine stood  looking  at  us  quite  steadily,  her  head  a  little 
bent  toward  me,  her  eyes  calm,  but  very  wide  open ;  and 
Mr.  Bowen  gave  an  audible  grunt.  I  suppose  the  right 
thing  for  Frank  to  have  done  in  any  well-regulated  novel 
would  have  been  to  fall  on  his  knees  and  call  her  all  sorts 
of  names  ;  but  people  never  do  —  that  is,  any  people  that  I 
know  — just  what  the  gentlemen  in  novels  do  ;  so  he  walked 
off  and  looked  out  of  the  window.  To  my  aid  caine  the 
goddess  of  slang.  I  stopped  snuffling  directly. 

"  Josephine,"  said  I,  solemnly,  "  you  are  a  brick  !  " 

"Well,  I  should  think  so!"  said  Mr.  Bowen,  slightly 
sarcastic. 

Josey  laughed  very  softly.  Frank  came  back  from  the 
window,  and  then  the  three  went  off  together,  she  holding 
by  her  father's  arm,  Frank  on  his  other  side.  I  could  not 
but  look  after  them  as  I  stood  in  the  hall-door,  and  then  I 
came  back  and  sat  down  to  read  the  paper  Frank  had  flung 
on  the  floor  when  he  came  in.  It  diverted  my  mind  enough 
from  myself  to  enable  me  to  sleep  ;  for  I  was  burning  with 
self-disgust  to  think  of  my  cowardice,  —  I,  a  grown  woman, 
supposed  to  be  more  than  ordinarily  strong-minded  by  some 
people,  fairly  shamed  and  routed  by  a  girl  Laura  Lane 
called  "Dora"! 

In  the  morning,  Frank  came  directly  after  breakfast. 
He  had  found  his  tongue  now,  certainly,  —  for  words 
seemed  noway  to  satisfy  him,  talking  of  Josephine ;  and 
presently  she  came,  too,  as  brave  and  bright  as  ever,  sewing 
busily  on  a  long  housewife  for  Frank ;  and  after  her,  Mrs. 


278  ROSE  TERRY. 

Bo  wen,  making  a  huge  pin-ball  in  red  white,  and  blue,  and 
full  of  the  trunk  she  was  packing  for  Frank  to  carry,  to 
be  filled  with  raspberry-jam,  hard  gingerbread,  old  brandy, 
clove-cordial,  guava  jelly,  strong  peppermints,  quinine,  black 
cake,  cod-liver  oil,  horehound-candy,  Brandreth's  pills,  dam- 
son-leather, and  cherry-pectoral,  packed  in  with  flannel  and 
cotton  bandages,  lint,  lancets,  old  linen,  and  cambric  hand- 
kerchiefs. 

I  could  not  help  laughing,  and  was  about  to  remonstrate, 
when  Frank  shook  his  head  at  me  from  behind  her.  He 
said  afterward  he  let  her  go  on  that  way,  because  it  kept 
her  from  crying  over  Josephine.  As  for  the  trunk,  he 
should  give  it  to  Miss  Dix  as  soon  as  ever  he  reached 
Washington. 

In  a  week,  Frank  bad  got  his  commission  as  captain  of  a 
company  in  a  volunteer  regiment;  he  went  into  camp  at 
Dartford,  our  chief  town,  and  set  to  work  in  earnest  at  tac- 
tics and  drill.  The  Bowens  also  went  to  Dartford,  and  the 
last  week  in  May  came  back  for  Josey's  wedding.  I  am  a 
superstitious  creature,  —  most  women  are,  —  and  it  went  to 
my  heart  to  have  them  married  in  May  ;  but  I  did  not  say 
so,  for  it  seemed  imperative,  as  the  regiment  were  to  leave 
for  Washington  in  June,  early. 

The  day  but  one  before  the  wedding  was  one  of  those 
warm,  soft  days  that  so  rarely  come  in  May.  My  windows 
were  open,  and  the  faint  scent  of  springing  grass  and  open- 
ing blossoms  came  in  on  every  southern  breath  of  wind. 
Josey  had  brought  her  work  over  to  sit  beside  me.  She 
was  hemming  her  wedding-veil,  —  a  long  cloud  of  tulle ; 
and  as  she  sat  there,  pinching  the  frail  stuff  in  her  fingers, 
and  handling  her  needle  with  such  deft  little  ways,  as  if 
they  were  old  friends  and  understood  each  other,  there  was 
something  so  youthful,  so  unconscious,  so  wistfully  sweet  in 
her  aspect,  I  could  not  believe  her  the  same  resolute,  brave 
creature  I  had  seen  that  night  in  April. 


A  WOMAN.  279 

•*  Josey,"  said  I,  "  I  don't  know  how  you  can  be  willing  to 
let  Frank  go." 

It  was  a  hard  thing  for  me  to  say,  and  I  said  it  without 
thinking. 

She  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  and  pinched  her  hem  faster 
than  ever. 

"  I  don't  know,  either,"  said  she.  "  I  suppose  it  was  be- 
cause I  ought.  I  don't  think  I  am  so  willing  now,  Sue  :  it 
was  easy  at  first,  for  I  was  so  angry  and  grieved  about  those 
Massachusetts  men ;  but  now,  when  I  get  time  to  think,  I 
do  ache  over  it !  I  never  let  him  know ;  for  it  is  just  the 
same  right  now,  and  he  thinks  so.  Besides,  I  never  let  my- 
self grieve  much,  even  to  myself,  lest  he  might  find  it  out. 
I  must  keep  bright  till  he  goes.  It  would  be  so  very  hard 
on  him,  Susy,  to  think  I  was  crying  at  home." 

I  said  no  more,  —  I  could  not ;  and  happily  for  me, 
Frank  came  in  with  a  bunch  of  wild-flowers  that  Josey  took 
with  a  smile  as  gay  as  the  columbines,  and  a  blush  that  out- 
shone the  "  pinkster-bloomjes,"  as  our  old  Dutch  "  chore- 
man  "  called  the  wild  honeysuckle.  A  perfect  shower  of 
dew  fell  from  them  all  over  her  wedding-veil. 

The  day  of  her  marriage  was  showery  as  April,  but  a 
gleam  of  soft,  fitful  sunshine  streamed  into  the  little  church- 
windows,  and  fell  across  the  tiny  figure  that  stood  by  Frank 
Addison's  side,  like  a  ray  of  glory,  till  the  golden  curls  glit- 
tered through  her  veil,  and  the  fresh  lilies-of-the-valley  that 
crowned  her  hair  and  ornamented  her  simple  dress  seemed 
to  send  out  a  fresher  fragrance,  and  glow  with  more  pearly 
whiteness.  Mrs.  Bowen,  in  a  square  pew,  sobbed  and  snuf- 
fled, and  sopped  her  eyes  with  a  lace  pocket-handkerchief, 
and  spilt  cologne  all  over  her  dress,  and  mashed  the  flowers 
on  her  French  hat  against  the  dusty  pew-rail,  and  behaved 
generally  like  a  hen  that  has  lost  her  sole  chicken.  Mr. 
Bowen  sat  upright  in  the  pew-corner,  uttering  sonorous 
hems,  whenever  his  wife  sobbed  audibly ;  he  looked  as  dry 


230  ROSE   TERRY. 

as  a  stick,  and  as  grim  as  Bunyan's  giant,  and  chewed  car- 
damom-seeds, as  if  he  were  a  ruminating  animal. 

After  the  wedding  came  lunch  :  it  was  less  formal  than 
dinner,  and  nobody  wanted  to  sit  down  before  hot  dishes 
and  go  through  with  the  accompanying  ceremonies.  For 
my  part,  I  always  did  hate  gregarious  eating :  it  is  well 
enough  for  animals,  in  pasture  or  pen  ;  but  a  thing  that  has 
so  little  that  is  graceful  or  dignified  about  it  as  this  taking 
food,  especially  as  the  thing  is  done  here  in  America, 
ought,  in  my  opinion,  to  be  a  solitary  act.  I  never  bring 
my  quinine  and  iron  to  my  friends  and  invite  them  to  share 
it ;  why  should  I  ask  them  to  partake  of  my  beef,  mutton, 
and  pork,  with  the  accompanying  mastication,  the  distortion 
of  face,  and  the  suppings  and  gulpings  of  fluid  dishes  that 
many  respectable  people  indulge  in  ?  No,  —  let  me,  at 
least,  eat  alone.  But  I  did  not  do  so  to-day;  for  Josey, 
with  the  most  unsentimental  air  of  hunger,  sat  down  at  the 
table  and  ate  two  sandwiches,  three  pickled  mushrooms,  a 
piece  of  pie,  and  a  glass  of  jelly,  with  a  tumbler  of  ale  be- 
sides. Laura  Lane  sat  on  the  other  side  of  the  table,  her 
great  dark  eyes  intently  fixed  on  Josephine,  and  a  look  in 
which  wonder  was  delicately  shaded  with  disgust  quivering 
about  her  mouth.  She  was  a  feeling  soul,  and  thought  a 
girl  in  love  ought  to  live  on  strawberries,  honey,  and  spring- 
water.  I  believe  she  really  doubted  Josey's  affection  for 
Frank,  when  she  saw  her  eat  a  real  mortal  meal  on  her 
wedding-day.  As  for  me,  I  am  a  poor,  miserable,  unhealthy 
creature,  not  amenable  to  ordinary  dietetic  rules,  and  much 
given  to  taking  any  excitement,  above  a  certain  amount  in 
lieu  of  rational  food ;  so  I  sustained  myself  on  a  cup  of 
coffee,  and  saw  Frank  also  make  tolerable  play  of  knife  and 
fork,  though  he  did  take  some  blanc-mange  with  his  cold 
chicken,  and  profusely  peppered  his  Charlotte-Russe  ! 

Mrs.  Bowen  alternately  wept  and  ate  pie.  Mr.  Bowen 
said  the  jelly  tasted  of  turpentine,  and  the  chickens  must 


A  WOMAN.  .        281 

have  gone  on  Noah's  voyage,  they  were  so  tough ;  he 
growled  at  the  ale,  and  asked  nine  questions  about  the 
coffee,  all  of  a  derogatory  sort,  and  never  once  looked  at 
Josephine,  who  looked  at  him  every  tune  he  was  particularly 
cross,  with  a  rosy  little  smile  as  if  she  knew  why !  The 
few  other  people  present  behaved  after  the  ordinary  fashion ; 
and  when  we  had  finished,  Frank  and  Josephine,  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Bowen,  Laura  Lane  and  I,  all  took  the  train  for  Dart- 
ford.  Laura  was  to  stay  two  weeks,  and  I  till  the  regiment 
left 

An  odd  time  I  had,  after  we  were  fairly  settled  in  our 
quiet  hotel,  with  those  two  girls.  Laura  was  sentimental, 
sensitive,  rather  high-flown,  very  shy,  and  self-conscious  ;  it 
was  not  in  her  to  understand  Josey  at  all.  "We  had  a  great 
deal  of  shopping  to  do,  as  our  little  bride  had  put  off  buying 
most  of  her  finery  till  this  time,  on  account  of  the  few 
weeks  between  the  fixing  of  her  marriage-day  and  its  arri- 
val. It  was  pretty  enough  to  see  the  naive  vanity  with 
which  she  selected  her  dresses  and  shawls  and  laces,  —  the 
quite  inconsiderate  way  in  which  she  spent  her  money  on 
whatever  she  wanted.  One  day  we  were  in  a  dry-goods' 
shop,  looking  at  silks  ;  among  them  lay  one  of  Marie-Louise 
blue,  —  a  plain  silk,  rich  from  its  heavy  texture  only,  soft, 
thick,  and  perfect  in  color. 

"  I  will  have  that  one,"  said  Josephine,  after  she  had  eyed 
it  a  moment,  with  her  head  on  one  side,  like  a  canary-bird. 
"How  much  is  it?" 

"  Two  fifty  a  yard,  Miss,"  said  the  spruce  clerk,  with  an 
inaccessible  air. 

"  I  shall  look  so  nice  in  it !  "  Josey  murmured.  "  Sue, 
will  seventeen  yards  do  ?  it  must  be  very  full  and  long ;  I 
can't  wear  flounces." 

"  Yes,  that 's  plenty,"  said  I,  scarce  able  to  keep  down  a 
smile  at  Laura's  face. 

She  would  as  soon  have  smoked  a  cigar  on  the  steps  of 


282          •  ROSE  TERRY. 

the  hotel  as  have  mentioned  before  anybody,  much  less  a 
supercilious  clerk,  that  she  should  "  look  so  nice  "  in  any- 
thing. Josey  never  thought  of  anything  beyond  the  fact, 
which  was  only  a  fact.  So,  after  getting  another  dress  of  a 
lavender  tint,  still  self-colored,  but  corded  and  rich,  because 
it  went  well  with  her  complexion,  and  a  black  one,  that 
"  father  liked  to  see  against  her  yellow  wig,  as  he  called  it," 
Mrs.  Josephine  proceeded  to  a  milliner's,  'vhere,  to  Laura's 
further  astonishment,  she  bought  bonnets  for  herself,  as  if 
she  had  been  her  own  doll,  with  an  utter  disregard  of  prop- 
er self-depreciation,  trying  one  after  another,  and  discarding 
them  for  various  personal  reasons,  till  at  last  she  fixed  on  a 
little  gray  straw,  trimmed  with  gray  ribbon  and  white  dai- 
sies, "  for  camp,"  she  said,  and  another  of  white  lace,  a 
fabric  calculated  to  wear  twice,  perhaps,  if  its  floating 
sprays  of  clematis  did  not  catch  in  any  parasol  on  its  first 
appearance.  She  called  me  to  see  how  becoming  both  the 
bonnets  were,  viewed  herself  in  various  ways  in  the  glass, 
and  at  last  announced  that  she  looked  prettiest  in  the  straw, 
but  the  lace  was  most  elegant.  To  this  succeeded  purchases 
of  lace  and  shawls,  that  still  further  opened  Laura's  eyes,  and 
made  her  face  grave.  She  confided  to  me  privately,  that, 
after  all,  I  must  allow  Josephine  was  silly  and  extravagant. 
I  had  just  come  from  that  little  lady's  room,  where  she  sat 
surrounded  by  the  opened  parcels,  saying,  with  the  gravity 
of  a  child,  — 

"  I  do  like  pretty  things,  Sue !  I  like  them  more  now 
than  I  used  to,  because  Frank  likes  me.  I  am  so  glad 
I  'm  pretty  ! " 

I  don't  know  how  it  was,  but  I  could  not  quite  coincide 
with  Laura's  strictures.  Josey  was  extravagant,  to  be  sure ; 
she  was  vain ;  but  something  so  tender  and  feminine  fla- 
vored her  very  faults  that  they  charmed  me.  I  was  not 
an  impartial  judge  ;  and  I  remembered,  through  all,  that 
A.pril  night,  and  the  calm,  resolute,  self-poised  character 


A   WOMAN.  283 

that  invented  the  lovely,  girlish  face  with  such  dignity, 
strength,  and  simplicity.  No,  she  was  not  silly ;  I  could  not 
grant  that  to  Laura. 

Every  day  we  drove  to  the  camp,  and  brought  Frank 
home  to  dinner.  Now  and  then  he  stayed  with  us  till  the 
next  day,  and  even  Laura  could  not  wonder  at  his  "  infatua- 
tion," as  she  had  once  called  it,  when  she  saw  how  thor- 
oughly Josephine  forgot  herself  in  her  utter  devotion  to 
him  ;  over  this,  Laura's  eyes  filled  with  sad  forebodings. 

"  If  anything  should  happen  to  him,  Sue,  it  will  kill  her," 
she  said.  "  She  never  can  lose  him  and  live.  Poor  little 
thing  !  how  could  Mr.  Bowen  let  her  marry  him  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Bowen  lets  her  do  much  as  she  likes,  Laura,  and 
always  has,  I  imagine." 

"  Yes,  she  has  been  a  spoiled  child,  I  know,  but  it  is  such 
a  pity!" 

"  Has  she  been  spoiled  ?  I  believe,  as  a  general  thing, 
more  children  are  spoiled  by  what  the  Scotch  graphically 
call  'nagging*  than  by  indulgence.  What  do  you  think 
Josey  would  have  been,  if  Mrs.  Brooks  had  been  her 
mother  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  quite ;  unhappy  I  am  sure ;  for  Mrs. 
Brooks's  own  children  look  as  if  they  had  been  fed  on 
chopped  catechism,  and  whipped  early  every  morning,  ever 
since  they  were  born.  I  never  went  there  without  hearing 
one  or  another  of  them  told  to  sit  up,  or  sit  down,  or  keep 
still,  or  let  their  aprons  alone,  or  read  their  Bibles  ;  and  Joe 
Brooks  confided  to  me  in  Sunday  school  that  he  called  Dea- 
con Smith  i  old  bald-head,'  one  day,  in  the  street,  to  see  if 
a  bear  would  n't  come  and  eat  him  up,  he  was  so  tired  of 
being  a  good  boy !  " 

"  That 's  a  case  in  point,  I  think,  Laura ;  but  what  a  jolly 
little  boy !  he  ought  to  have  a  week  to  be  naughty  in,  di- 
rectly." 

"  He  never  will,  while  his  mother  owns  a  rod !  "  said  she, 
emphatically. 


284  ROSE  TERRY. 

I  had  beguiled  Laura  from  her  subject ;  for,  to  tell  the 
truth,  it  was  one  I  did  not  dare  to  contemplate ;  it  op- 
pressed and  distressed  me  too  much. 

After  Laura  went  home,  we  stayed  in  Dartford  only  a 
week,  and  then  followed  the  regiment  to  Washington.  We 
had  been  there  but  a  few  days,  before  it  was  ordered  into 
service.  Frank  came  into  my  room  one  night  to  tell  me. 

"  We  must  be  off  to-morrow,  Sue,  —  and  you  must  take 
her  back  to  Ridgefield  at  once.  I  can't  have  her  here.  1 
have  told  Mr.  Bowen.  If  we  should  be  beaten,  —  and  we 
may,  —  raw  troops  may  take  a  panic,  or  may  fight  like  vet- 
erans, — but  if  we  should  run,  they  will  make  a  bee-line  for 
Washington.  I  should  go  mad  to  have  her  here  with  a  pos- 
sibility of  Rebel  invasion.  She  must  go ;  there  is  no  ques- 
tion." 

He  walked  up  and  down  the  room,  then  came  back  and 
looked  me  straight  in  the  face. 

"  Susan,  if  I  never  come  back,  you  will  be  her  godd 
friend,  too  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  I,  meeting  his  eye  as  coolly  as  it  met  mine  : 
I  had  learned  a  lesson  of  Josey.  "  I  shall  see  you  in  the 
morning  ?  " 

"  Yes  " ;  and  so  he  went  back  to  her. 

Morning  came.  Josephine  was  as  bright,  as  calm,  as  nat- 
ural, as  the  June  day  itself.  She  insisted  on  fastening  "  her 
Captain's  "  straps  on  his  shoulders,  purloined  his  cumbrous 
pin-ball  and  put  it  out  of  sight,  and  kept  even  Mrs.  Bowen's 
sobs  in  subjection  by  the  intense  serenity  of  her  manner. 
The  minutes  seemed  to  go  like  beats  of  a  fever-pulse  ;  ten 
o'clock  smote  on  a  distant  bell ;  Josephine  had  retreated,  as 
if  accidentally,  to  a  little  parlor  of  her  own,  opening  from 
our  common  sitting-room.  Frank  shook  hands  with  Mr. 
Bowen  ;  kissed  Mrs.  Bowen  dutifully,  and  cordially  too ; 
gave  me  one  strong  clasp  in  his  arms,  and  one  kiss ;  then 
went  after  Josephine.  I  closed  the  door  softly  behind  him. 


A  WOMAN.  285 

In  five  minutes  by  the  ticking  clock  he  came  out,  and  strode 
through  the  room  without  a  glance  at  either  of  us.  I  had 
heard  her  say  "  Good  by  "  in  her  sweet,  clear  tone,  just  as 
he  opened  the  door ;  but  some  instinct  impelled  me  to  go  in 
to  her  at  once :  she  lay  in  a  dead  faint  on  the  floor. 

We  left  Washington  that  afternoon,  and  went  straight 
back  to  Ridgefield.  Josey  was  in  and  out  of  my  small  house 
continually :  but  for  her  father  and  mother,  I  think  she 
would  have  stayed  with  me  from  choice.  Rare  letters  came 
from  Frank,  and  were  always  reported  to  me,  but,  of  course, 
never  shown.  If  there  was  any  change  in  her  manner,  it 
was  more  steadily  affectionate  to  her  father  and  mother  than 
ever ;  the  fitful,  playful  ways  of  her  girlhood  were  subdued, 
but,  except  to  me,  she  showed  no  symptom  of  pain,  no  shad- 
ow of  apprehension :  with  me  alone  she  sometimes  drooped 
and  sighed.  Once  she  laid  her  little  head  on  my  neck,  and, 
holding  me  to  her  tightly,  half  sobbed,  — 

"  Oh,  I  wish  —  I  wish  I  could  see  him  just  for  once !  " 

I  could  not  speak  to  answer  her. 

As  rumors  of  a  march  toward  Manassas  increased,  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Bowen  took  her  to  Dartford :  there  was  no  tele- 
graph line  to  Ridgefield,  and  but  one  daily  mail,  and  now  a 
day's  delay  of  news  might  be  a  vital  loss.  I  could  not  go 
with  them ;  I  was  too  ill.  At  last  came  that  dreadful  day 
of  Bull  Run.  Its  story  of  shame  and  blood,  trebly  exagger- 
ated, ran  like  fire  through  the  land.  For  twenty-four  long 
hours  every  heart  in  Ridgefield  seemed  to  stand  still ;  then 
there  was  the  better  news  of  fewer  dead  than  the  first  re- 
port, and  we  knew  that  the  enemy  had  retreated,  but  no 
particulars.  Another  long,  long  day,  and  the  papers  said 

Colonel 's  regiment  was  cut  to  pieces  ;  the  fourth  mail 

told  another  story:  the  regiment  was  safe,  but  Captains 
Addison,  Black,  and  —  Jones,  I  think,  were  missing.  The 
fifth  day  brought  me  a  letter  from  Mr.  Bowen.  Frank  was 
dead,  shot  through  the  heart,  before  the  panic  began,  cheer- 


286  ROSE  TERRY. 

ing  on  his  men ;  he  had  fallen  in  the  very  front  rank,  and 
his  gallant  company,  at  the  risk  of  their  lives,  after  losing 
half  their  number  as  wounded  or  killed,  had  brought  off  his 
body,  and  carried  it  with  them  in  retreat,  to  find  at  last  that 
they  had  ventured  all  this  for  a  lifeless  corpse  ! 

He  did  not  mention  Josephine,  but  asked  me  to  come  to 
them  at  once,  as  he  was  obliged  to  go  to  Washington.  I 
could  not,  for  I  was  too  ill  to  travel  without  a  certainty  of 
being  quite  useless  at  my  journey's  end.  I  could  but  just 
sit  up.  Five  days  after,  I  had  an  incoherent  sobbing  sort 
of  letter  from  Mrs.  Bowen,  to  say  that  they  had  arranged  to 
have  the  funeral  at  Ridgefield  the  next  day  but  one,  —  that 
Josephine  would  come  out,  with  her,  the  night  before,  and 
directly  to  my  house,  if  I  was  able  to  receive  them.  I  sent 
word  by  the  morning's  mail  that  I  was  able,  and  went  my- 
self to  the  station  to  meet  them. 

They  had  come  alone,  and  Josey  preceded  her  mother 
into  the  little  room,  as  if  she  were  impatient  to  have  any 
meeting  with  a  fresh  face  over.  She  was  pale  as  any  pale 
blossom  of  spring,  and  as  calm.  Her  curls,  tucked  away 
under  the  widow's-cap  she  wore,  and  clouded  by  the  mass 
of  crape  that  shrouded  her,  left  only  a  narrow  line  of  gold 
above  the  dead  quiet  of  her  brow.  Her  eyes  were  like  the 
eyes  of  a  sleep-walker  :  they  seemed  to  see,  but  not  to  feel 
sight.  She  smiled  mechanically  and  put  a  cold  hand  into 
mine.  For  any  outward  expression  of  emotion,  one  might 
have  thought  Mrs.  Bowen  the  widow  :  her  eyes  were  blood- 
shot and  swollen,  her  nose  was  red,  her  lips  tremulous, 
her  whole  face  stained  and  washed  with  tears,  and  the 
skin  seemed  wrinkled  by  their  salt  floods.  She  had  cried 
herself  sick,  —  more  over  Josephine  than  Frank,  as  was 
natural. 

It  was  but  a  short  drive  over  to  my  house,  but  an  utterly 
silent  one.  Josephine  made  no  sort  of  demonstration,  ex- 
cept that  she  stooped  to  pat  my  great  dog  as  we  went  in.  I 


A  WOMAN.  |  287 

gave  her  a  room  that  opened  out  of  mine,  and  put  Mrs. 
Bowen  by  herself.  Twice  in  the  night  I  stole  in  to  look  at 
her :  both  times  I  found  her  waking,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the 
open  window,  her  face  set  in  its  unnatural  quiet ;  she  smiled, 
but  did  not  speak.  Mrs.  Bowen  told  me  in  the  morning 
that  she  had  neithei  shed  a  tear  nor  slept  since  the  news 
came  :  it  seemed  to  strike  her  at  once  into  this  cold  silence, 
and  so  she  had  remained.  About  ten,  a  carriage  was  sent 
over  from  the  village  to  take  them  to  the  funeral.  Tliis 
miserable  custom  of  ours,  that  demands  the  presence  of 
women  at  such  ceremonies,  Mrs.  Bowen  was  the  last  person 
to  evade ;  and  when  I  suggested  to  Josey  that  she  should 
stay  at  home  with  me,  she  looked  surprised,  and  said,  qui- 
etly, but  emphatically,  "  O  no  !  " 

After  they  were  gone,  I  took  my  shawl  and  went  out  on 
the  lawn.  There  was  a  young  pine  dense  enough  to  shield 
me  from  the  sun,  sitting  under  which  I  could  see  the  funeral 
procession  as  it  wound  along  the  river's  edge  up  toward  the 
burying-ground,  a  mile  beyond  the  station.  But  there  was 
no  sun  to  trouble  me ;  cool  gray  clouds  brooded  ominously 
over  all  the  sky  :  a  strong  south  wind  cried,  and  wailed,  and 
swept  in  wild  gusts  through  the  woods,  while  in  its  intervals 
a  dreadful  quiet  brooded  over  earth  and  heaven,  —  over  the 
broad  weltering  river,  that,  swollen  by  recent  rain,  washed 
the  green  grass  shores  with  sullen  flood,  —  over  the  heavy 
masses  of  oak  and  hickory  trees  that  hung  on  the  farther 
hillside,  —  over  the  silent  village  and  its  gathering  people. 
The  engine-shriek  was  borne  on  the  coming  wind  from  far 
down  the  valley.  There  was  an  air  of  hushed  expectation 
and  regret  in  Nature  itself  that  seemed  to  fit  the  hour  to 
its  event. 

Soon  I  saw  the  crowd  about  the  station  begin  to  move, 
and  presently  the  funeral-bell  swung  out  its  solemn  tones  of 
lamentation;  its  measured,  lingering  strokes,  mingled  with 
the  woful  shrieking  of  the  wind  and  the  sighing  of  the 


288  ROSE  TERRr. 

pine-tree  overhead,  made  a  dirge  of  inexpressible  force  and 
melancholy.  A  weight  of  grief  seemed  to  settle  on  my 
very  breath  :  it  was  not  real  sorrow ;  for,  though  I  knew  it 
well,  I  had  not  felt  yet  that  Frank  was  dead,  —  it  was  not 
real  to  me,  —  I  could  not  take  to  my  stunned  perceptions 
the  fact  that  he  was  gone.  It  is  the  protest  of  Xature.  dim- 
ly conscious  of  her  original  eternity,  against  this  interruption 
of  death,  that  it  should  always  be  such  an  interruption,  so 
incredible,  so  surprising,  so  new.  No,  —  the  anguish  that 
oppressed  me  now  was  -not  the  true  anguish  of  loss,  but 
merely  the  effect  of  these  adjuncts ;  the  pain  of  want,  of 
aration,  of  reaching  in  vain  after  that  which  is  gone,  of 
%-ivid  dreams  and  tearful  waking,  —  all  this  lay  in  "wait  for 
the  future,  to  be  still  renewed,  still  suffered  and  endured, 
till  time  should  be  no  more.  Let  all  these  pangs  of  recol- 
lection attest  it,  —  these  involuntary  bursts  of  longing  for 

the  eyes  that  are  gone  and  the  voice  that  is  still, these 

recoils  of  baffled  feeling  seeking  for  the  one  perfect  sympa- 
thy forever  fled,  —  these  pleasures  dimmed  in  their  first 
resplendence  for  want  of  one  whose  joy  would  have  been 
keener  and  sweeter  to  us  than  our  own,  —  these  hitter  sor- 
rows crying  like  children  in  pain  for  the  heart  that  should 
have  soothed  and  shared  them!  No,  —  there  is  no  such 
dreary  He  as  that  which  prates  of  consoling  Time  !  You 
who  are  gone,  if  in  heaven  you  know  how  we  mortals  fare, 

you  kndw  that  life  took  from  you  no  love,  no  faith, that 

bitterer  tears  fall  for  you  to-day  than  ever  wet  your  new 
graves,  —  that  the  gayer  words  and  the  recalled  smiles  are 
only,  like  the  flowers  that  grow  above  you,  symbols  of  the 
deeper  roots  we"  strike  in  your  past  existence,  —  that  to  the 
true  soul  there  is  no  such  thing  as  forgetfulness,  no  such 
mercy  as  diminishing  regret ! 

Slowly  the  long  procession  wound  up  the  river, here, 

black  with  plumed  hearse  and  sable  mourners, there,  gay 

with   regimental   band    and  bright  uniforms,  —  no  stately, 


A  WOMAN.  289 

proper  funeral,  ordered  by  custom  and  marsl  ailed  by  pro- 
priety, but  a  straggling  array  of  vehicles  ;  here,  the  doctor's 
old  chaise.  —  there,  an  open  wagon,  a  dusty  buggy,  a  long, 
open  omnibus,  such  as  the  village-stable  kept  for  pleasure- 
parties  or  for  parties  of  mourning  who  wanted  to  go  en 
masse. 

All  that  knew  Frank,  in  or  about  Ridgefield,  and  all  who 
hatl  sons  or  brothers  in  the  army,  swarmed  to  do  him  honor ; 
and  the  quaint,  homely  array  crept  slowly  through  the  val- 
ley, to  the  sound  of  tolling  bell  and  moaning  wind  and  the 
low  rush  of  the  swollen  river,  —  the  first  taste  of  war's  des- 
olation that  had  fallen  upon  us,  the  first  dark  wave  of  a 
whelming  tide ! 

As  it  passed  out  of  sight,  I  heard  the  wheels  cease,  one 
by  one,  their  crunch  and  grind  on  the  gravelled  road  up  the 
slope  of  the  graveyard.  I  knew  they  had  reached  that 
hillside  where  the  dead  of  Ridgefield  lie  calmer  than  its 
living ;  and  presently  the  long-drawn  notes  of  that  hymn- 
tune  consecrated  to  such  occasions  —  old  China  —  rose  and 
fell  in  despairing  cadences  on  my  ear.  If  ever  any  music 
was  invented  for  the  express  purpose  of  making  mourners 
as  distracted  as  any  external  thing  can  make  them,  it  is  the 
bitter,  hopeless,  unrestrained  wail  of  this  tune.  There  is 
neither  peace  nor  resignation  in  it,  but  the  very  exhaustion 
of  raving  sorrow  that  heeds  neither  God  nor  man,  but  cries 
out,  with  the  soulless  agony  of  a  wind-harp,  its  refusal  to  be 
comforted. 

At  length  it  was  over,  and  still  in  that  same  dead  calm 
Josephine  came  home  to  me.  Mrs.  Bowen  was  frightened, 
Mr.  Bowen  distressed.  I  could  not  think  what  to  do  at 
first;  but  remembering  how  sometimes  a  little  thing  had 
utterly  broken  me  down  from  a  regained  calmness  after  loss, 
some  homely  association,  some  recall  of  the  past,  I  begged 
of  Mr.  Bowen  to  bring  up  from  the  village  Frank's  knap- 
sack, which  he  had  found  in  one  of  his  men's  hands,  the 
19 


290  ROSE  TERRY. 

poor  fellow  having  taken  care  of  that,  while  he  lost  his 
own :  "  For  the  captain's  wife,"  he  said.  As  soon  as  it 
came,  I  took  from  it  Frank's  coat,  and  his  cap  and  sword. 
My  heart  was  in  my  mouth  as  I  entered  Josephine's  room, 
and  saw  the  fixed  quiet  on  her  face  where  she  sat.  I 
walked  in,  however,  witli  no  delay,  and  laid  the  things  down 
on  her  bed,  close  to  where  she  sat.  .  She  gave  one  startled 
look  at  them  and  then  at  me  ;  her  face  relaxed  from  all  its 
quiet  lines ;  she  sank  on  her  knees  by  the  bedside,  and, 
burying  her  head  in  her  arms,  cried,  and  cried,  and  cried,  so 
helplessly,  so  utterly  without  restraint,  that  I  cried  too.  It 
was  impossible  for  me  to  help  it.  At  last  the  tears  exhaust- 
ed themselv^. ;  the  dreadful  sobs  ceased  to  convulse  her; 
all  drenched  and  tired,  she  lifted  her  face  from  its  rest,  and 
held  out  her  arms  to  me.  I  took  her  up,  and  put  her  to  bed 
like  a  child.  I  hung  the  coat  and  cap  and  sword  where  she 
could  see  them.  I  made  her  take  a  cup  of  broth,  and  be- 
fore long,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  things  I  had  hung  up, 
she  fell  asleep,  and  slept  heavily,  without  waking,  till  the 
next  morning. 

I  feared  almost  to  enter  her  room  when  I  heard  her  stir ; 
I  had  dreaded  her  waking,  —  that  terrible  hour  that  all 
know  who  have  suffered,  the  dim  awakening  shadow  that 
darkens  so  swiftly  to  black  reality  ;  but  I  need  not  1m -e 
dreaded  it  for  her.  She  told  me  afterward  that  in  all  that 
sleep  she  never  lost  the  knowledge  of  her  grief;  she  did 
not  come  into  it  as  a  surprise.  Frank  had  seemed  to  be 
with  her,  distant,  sad,  yet  consoling ;  she  felt  that  he  was 
gone,  but  not  utterly,  —  that  there  was  a  drear  separation 
and  loneliness,  but  not  forever. 

When  I  went  in,  she  lay  there  awake,  looking  at  her  tro 
phy,  as  she  came  to  call  it,  her  eyes  with  all  their  light 
quenched  and  sodden  out  with  crying,  her  face  pale  and 
unalterably  sad,  but  natural  in  its  sweetness  and  mobility 
She  drew  me  down  to  her  and  kissed  me. 


A  WOMAN.  291 

•*  May  1  get  up  ?  "  she  asked ;  and  then,  without  waiting 
for  an  answer,  went  on,  —  "I  have  been  selfish,  Sue  ;  I  will 
try  to  be  better  now;  I  won't  run  away  from  my  battle. 
O  how  glad  I  am  he  did  n't  run  away !  It  is  dreadful 
now,  dreadful !  Perhaps,  if  I  had  to  choose  if  he  should 
have  run  away  or  —  or  this,  I  should  have  wanted  him  to 
run,  —  I  'm  afraid  I  should.  But  I  am  glad  now.  If  God 
wanted  him,  I  'm  glad  he  went  from  the  front  ranks.  0 
those  poor  women  whose  husbands  ran  away,  and  were 
killed,  too ! " 

She  seemed  to  be  so  comforted  by  that  one  thought !  It 
was  a  strange  trait  in  the  little  creature  ;  I  could  not  quite 
fathom  it. 

After  this  she  came  down-stairs  and  went  about  among 
us,  busying  herself  in  various  little  ways.  She  never  went 
to  the  graveyard;  but  whenever  she  was  a  little  tired,  I 
was  sure  to  find  her  sitting  in  her  room  with  her  eyes  on 
that  cap  and  coat  and  sword.  Letters  of  condolence  poured 
in,  but  she  would  not  read  them  or  answer  them,  and  they 
all  fell  into  my  hands.  I  could  not  wonder  ;  for  of  all  cruel 
conventionalities,  visits  and  letters  of  condolence  seem  to 
me  the  most  cruel.  If  friends  can  be  useful  in  lifting  off 
the  little  painful  cares  that  throng  in  the  house  of  death  till 
its  presence  is  banished,  let  them  go  and  do  their  work  qui- 
etly and  cheerfully  ;  but  to  make  a  call  or  write  a  note,  to 
measure  your  sorrow  and  express  theirs,  seems  to  me  on  a 
par  with  pulling  a  wounded  man's  bandages  off  and  probing 
his  hurt  to  hear  him  cry  out  and  hear  yourself  say  how  bad 
it  must  be ! 

Laura  Lane  was  admitted,  for  Frank's  sake,  as  she  had 
been  his  closest  and  dearest  relative.  The  day  she  came, 
Josey  had  a  severe  headache,  and  looked  wretchedly.  Lau- 
ra was  shocked,  and  showed  it  so  obviously,  that,  had  there 
been  any  real  cause  for  her  alarm,  I  should  have  turned  her 
out  of  the  room  without  ceremony,  almost  before  she  was 


292  ROSE  TERRY. 

fairly  in  it.  As  soon  as  she  left,  Josey  looked  at  me  and 
smiled. 

"  Laura  thinks  I  am  going  to  die,"  said  she ;  "  but  I  'm 
not.  If  I  could,  I  would  n't,  Sue ;  for  poor  father  and 
mother  want  me,  and  so  will  the  soldiers  by  and  by."  A 
weary,  heart-breaking  look  quivered  in  her  face  as  she  went 
on,  half  whispering,  "  But  I  should  —  I  should  like  to  see 
him ! " 

In  September  she  went  away.  I  had  expected  it  ever 
since  she  spoke  of  the  soldiers  needing  her.  Mrs.  Bowen 
went  to  the  sea-side  for  her  annual  astjima.  Mr.  Bowen 
went  with  Josephine  to  Washington.  There,  by  some  talis- 
manic  influence,  she  got  admission  to  the  hospitals,  though 
she  was  very  pretty,  and  under  thirty.  I  think  perhaps  her 
pale  face  and  widow's-dress,  and  her  sad,  quiet  manner, 
were  her  secret  of  success.  She  worked  here  like  a  sprite  ; 
nothing  daunted  or  disgusted  her.  She  followed  the  army 
to  Yorktown,  and  nursed  on  the  transport-ships.  One  man 
said,  I  was  told,  that  it  was  "  jes'  like  havin'  an  apple-tree 
blow  raound,  to  see  that  Mis'  Addison  ;  she  was  so  kinder 
cheery  an'  pooty,  an'  knew  sech  a  sight  abaout  nussin',  it  did 
a  feller  lots  of  good  only  to  look  at  her  chirpin'  abaout." 

Now  and  then  she  wrote  to  me,  and  almost  always  ended 
by  declaring  she  was  "  quite  well,  and  almost  happy."  If 
ever  she  met  with  one  of  Frank's  men,  —  and  all  who  were 
left  re-enlisted  for  the  war,  —  he  was  sure  to  be  nursed  like 
a  prince,  and  petted  witR  all  sorts  of  luxuries,  and  told 
it  was  for  his  old  captain's  sake.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bowen  fol- 
lowed her  everywhere,  as  near  as  they  could  get  to  her,  and 
afforded  unfailing  supplies  of  such  extra  hospital  stores  as 
she  wanted ;  they  lavished  on  her  time  and  money  and  love 
enough  to  have  satisfied  three  women,  but  Josey  found  use 
for  it  all  —  for  her  work.  Two  months  ago,  they  all  came 
back  to  Dartford.  A  hospital  had  been  set  up  there,  and 
some  one  was  needed  to  put  it  in  operation  ;  her  experience 


A  WOMAN.  293 

would  be  doubly  useful  there,  and  it  was  pleasant  for 
her  to  be  so  near  Frank's  home,  to  be  among  his  friends 
and  hers. 

I  went  in,  to  do  what  I  could,  being  stronger  than  usnal. 
and  found  her  hard  at  work.  Her  face  retained  its  rounded 
outline,  her  lips  had  recovered  their  bloom,  her  curls  now 
and  then  strayed  from  the  net  under  which  she  carefully 
tucked  them,  and  made  her  look  as  girlish  as  ever,  but  the 
girl's  expression  was  gone ;  that  tender,  patient,  resolute 
look  was  born  of  a  woman's  stern  experience ;  and  though 
she  had  laid  aside  her  widow's-cap,  because  it  was  incon- 
venient, her  face  was  so  sad  in  its  repose,  so  lonely  and 
inexpectant,  she  scarce  needed  any  outward  symbol  to  pro- 
claim her  widowhood.  Yet  under  all  this  new  character  lay 
still  some  of  those  childish  tastes  that  made,  as  it  were,  the 
"  fresh  perfume  "  of  her  nature  :  everything  that  came  in 
her  way  was  petted  ;  a  little  white  kitten  followed  her  about 
the  wards,  and  ran  to  meet  her  whenever  she  came  in,  with 
joyful  demonstrations  ;  a  great  dog  waited  for  her  at  home, 
and  escorted  her  to  and  from  the  hospital ;  and  three  cana- 
ries hung  in  her  chamber ;  —  and  I  confess  here,  what  I 
would  not  to  Laura,  that  she  retains  yet  a  strong  taste  for 
sugar-plums,  gingerbread,  and  the  "Lady's  Book."  She 
kept  only  so  much  of  what  Laura  called  her  vanity  as  to  be 
exquisitely  neat  and  particular  in  every  detail  of  dress ;  and 
though  a  black  gown,  and  a  white  linen  apron,  collar,  and 
cuffs  do  not  afford  much  room  for  display,  yet  these  were 
always  so  speckless  and  spotless  that  her  whole  aspect  was 
refreshing. 

Last  week  there  was  a  severe  operation  performed  hi  the 
hospital,  and  Josephine  had  to  be  present.  She  held  the 
poor  fellow's  hand  till  he  was  insensible  from  the  kindly 
chloroform  they  gave  him,  and,  after  the  surgeons  were 
through,  sat  by  him  till  night,  with  such  a  calm,  cheerful 
face,  giving  him  wine  and  broth,  and  watching  every  indica- 


294  ROSE  TERRY. 

tion  of  pulse  or  skin,  till  he  really  rallied,  and  is  now  doing 
well. 

As  I  came  over,  the  next  day,  I  met  Doctor  Rivers  at  the 
door  of  her  ward. 

"  Really,"  said  he,  "  that  little  Mrs.  Addison  is  a  true 
heroine ! " 

The  kitten  purred  about  my  feet,  and  as  I  smiled  assent 
to  him,  I  said  inwardly  to  myself, — 

"  Really,  she  is  a  true  woman  1 " 


DANIEL    GRAY 


BY  J.   G.  HOLLAND. 


IF  I  shall  ever  win  the  home  in  heaven 
For  whose  sweet  rest  I  humbly  hope  and  pray, 
In  the  great  company  of  the  forgiven 
I  shall  be  sure  to  find  old  Daniel  Gray. 

1  knew  him  Avell ;  in  fact,  few  knew  him  better ; 

For  my  young  eyes  oft  read  for  him  the  Word, 
And  saw  how  meekly  from  the  crystal  letter 

He  drank  the  life  of  his  beloved  Lord. 

Old  Daniel  Gray  was  not  a  man  who  lifted 
On  ready  words  his  freight  of  gratitude, 

And  was  not  called  upon  among  the  gifted, 
In  the  prayer-meetings  of  his  neighborhood. 

He  had  a  few  old-fashioned  words  and  phrases, 
Linked  in  with  sacred  texts  and  Sunday  rhymes ; 

And  I  suppose  that,  in  his  prayers  and  graces, 
I  Ve  heard  them  all  at  least  a  thousand  times. 

I  see  him  now,  —  his  form,  and  face,  and  motions, 
His  homespun  habit,  and  his  silver  hair,  — 

And  hear  the  language  of  his  trite  devotions 
Rising  behind  the  straight-backed  kitchen-chair. 


296  J.  G.  HOLLAND. 

I  can  remember  how  the  sentence  sounded,  — 

"  Help  us,  0  Lord,  to  pray,  and  not  to  faint ! " 
And  how  the  "  conquering-and-to-conquer  "  rounded 

The  loftier  aspirations  of  the  saint. 

* 

He  had  some  notions  that  did  not  improve  him : 
He  never  kissed  his  children,  —  so  they  say ; 

And  finest  scenes  and  fairest  flowers  would  move  him 
Less  than  a  horseshoe  picked  up  in  the  way. 

He  could  see  naught  but  vanity  in  beauty, 
And  naught  but  weakness  in  a  fond  caress, 

And  pitied  men  whose  views  of  Christian  duty 
Allowed  indulgence  in  such  foolishness. 

Yet  there  were  love  and  tenderness  within  him ; 

And  I  am  told,  that,  when  his  Charley  died, 
Nor  Nature's  need  nor  gentle  words  could  win  him 

From  his  fond  vigils  at  the  sleeper's  side. 

And  when  they  came  to  bury  little  Charley, 

They  found  fresh  dew-drops  sprinkled  in  his  hair, 

And  on  his  breast  a  rose-bud,  gathered  early,  — 
And  guessed,  but  did  not  know,  who  placed  it  thera 

My  good  old  friend  was  very  hard  on  fashion, 

And  held  its  votaries  in  lofty  scorn, 
And  often  burst  into  a  holy  passion 

While  the  gay  crowds  went  by  on  Sunday  morn. 

Yet  he  was  vain,  old  Gray,  and  did  not  know  it ! 

He  wore  his  hair  unparted,  long,  and  plain, 
To  hide  the  handsome  brow  that  slept  below  it, 

For  fear  the  world  would  think  that  he  was  vain  I 


DANIEL  GRAY.  297 

He  had  a  hearty  hatred  of  oppression, 

And  righteous  words  for  sin  of  every  kind ; 

Alas,  that  the  transgressor  and  transgression 
Were  linked  so  closely  in  his  honest  mind ! 

Yet  that  sweet  tale  of  gift  without  repentance, 
Told  of  the  Master,  touched  him  to  the  core, 

And  tearless  he  could  never  read  the  sentence : 
"  Neither  do  I  condemn  thee :  sin  no  more." 

Honest  and  faithful,  constant  in  his  calling, 
Strictly  attendant  on  the  means  of  grace, 

Instant  in  prayer,  and  fearful  most  of  falling, 
Old  Daniel  Gray  was  always  in  his  place. 

A  practical  old  man,  and  yet  a  dreamer, 

He  thought  that  in  some  strange,  unlooked-for  way, 
His  mighty  Friend  in  heaven,  the  great  Redeemer, 

Would  honor  him  with  wealth  some  golden  day. 

This  dream  he  carried  in  a  hopeful  spirit 
Until  in  death  his  patient  eye  grew  dim, 

And  his  Redeemer  called  him  to  inherit 

The  heaven  of  wealth  long  garnered  up  for  him. 

So,  if  I  ever  win  the  home  in  heaven 

For  whose  sweet  rest  I  humbly  hope  and  pray, 

In  the  great  company  of  the  forgiven 
I  shall  be  sure  to  find  old  Daniel  Gray. 


MI    FRIENDS. 

BY  ALEXANDER  CARLYLE. 

IN  the  year  1753  David  Hume  was  living  in  Edinburgh 
and  composing  his  History  of  Great  Britain.  He  was 
a  man  of  great  knowledge,  and  of  a  social  and  benevolent 
temper,  and  truly  the  best-natured  man  in  the  world.  He 
was  branded  with  the  title  of  Atheist,  on  account  of  the 
many  attacks  on  revealed  religion  that  are  to  be  found  in 
his  philosophical  works,  and  in  many  places  of  his  History, 
—  the  last  of  which  are  still  more  objectionable  than  the 
first,  which  a  friendly  critic  might  call  only  sceptical 
Apropos  of  this,  when  Mr.  Robert  Adam,  the  celebrated 
architect,  and  his  brother,  lived  in  Edinburgh  with  their 
mother,  an  aunt  of  Dr.  Robertson's,  and  a  very  respectable 
woman,  she  said  to  her  son,  "  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  any  of 
your  companions  to  dinner,  but  I  hope  you  will  never  bring 
the  Atheist  here  to  disturb  my  peace."  But  Robert  soon 
fell  on  a  method  to  reconcile  her  to  him,  for  he  introduced 
him  under  another  name,  or  concealed  it  carefully  from  her. 
When  the  company  parted,  she  said  to  her  son,  "  I  must 
confess  that  you  bring  very  agreeable  companions  about 
you,  but  the  large,  jolly  man  who  sat  next  me  is  the  most 
agreeable  of  them  all."  "  This  was  the  very  Atheist,"  said 
he,  "  mother,  that  you  was  so  much  afraid  of."  "  Well,  says 
she,  "  you  may  bring  him  here  as  much  as  you  please,  for 
he 's  the  most  innocent,  agreeable,  facetious  man  I  ever  met 


MY  FRIENDS.  299 

with."  This  was  truly  the  case  with  him ;  for  though  he 
had  much  learning  and  a  fine  taste,  and  was  professedly  a 
sceptic,  though  by  no  means  an  atheist,  he  had  the  greatest 
simplicity  of  mind  and  manners  with  the  utmost  facility  and 
benevolence  of  temper  of  any  man  I  ever  knew.  His  con- 
versation was  truly  irresistible,  for  while  it  was  enlightened, 
it  was  naive  almost  to  puerility. 

I  was  one  of  those  who  never  believed  that  David  Hume's 
sceptical  principles  had  laid  fast  hold  on  his  mind,  but 
thought  that  his  books  proceeded  rather  from  affectation  of 
superiority  and  pride  of  understanding  and  love  of  vainglory. 
I  was  confirmed  in  this  opinion,  after  his  death,  by  what  the 
Honorable  Patrick  Boyle,  one  of  his  most  intimate  friends, 
told  me  many  years  ago  at  my  house  in  Musselburgh,  where 
he  used  to  come  and  dine  the  first  Sunday  of  every  General 
Assembly,  after  his  brother,  Lord  Glasgow,  ceased  to  be 
Lord  High  Commissioner.  "When  we  were  talking  of 
David,  Mrs.  Carlyle  asked  Mr.  Boyle  if  he  thought  David 
Hume  was  as  great  an  unbeliever  as  the  world  took  him  to 
be  ?  He  answered,  that  the  world  judged  from  his  books, 
as  they  had  a  right  to  do ; '  but  he  thought  otherwise,  who 
had  known  him  all  his  life,  and  mentioned  the  following 
incident :  When  David  and  he  were  both  in  London,  at  the 
period  when  David's  mother  died,  Mr.  Boyle,  hearing  of  it, 
soon  after  went  into  his  apartment,  —  for  they  lodged  in  the 
same  house,  —  when  he  found  him  in  the  deepest  affliction 
and  in  a  flood  of  tears.  After  the  usual  topics  of  condolence, 
Mr.  Boyle  said  to  him,  "  My  friend,  you  owe  this  uncom- 
mon grief  to  your  having  thrown  off  the  principles  of  re- 
ligion ;  for  if  you  had  not,  you  would  have  been  consoled  by 
the  firm  belief  that  the  good  lady,  who  was  not  only  the 
best  of  mothers,  but  the  most  pious  of  Christians,  was  now 
completely  happy  in  the  realms  of  the  just."  To  which 
David  replied.  "  Though  I  threw  out  my  speculations  to 
entertain  and  employ  the  learned  and  metaphysical  world, 


300  ALEXANDER  CARLYLE. 

yet  in  other  things  I  do  not  think  so  differently  from  the  resi 
of  mankind  as  you  may  imagine."  To  this  my  wife  was  a 
witness.  This  conversation  took  place  the  year  after  David 
died,  when  Dr.  Hill,  who  was  to  preach,  had  gone  to  a  room 
to  look  over  his  notes. 

At  this  period,  when  he  first  lived  in  Edinburgh,  and  was 
writing  his  History  of  England,  his  circumstances  were  nar- 
row, and  he  accepted  the  office  of  Librarian  to  the  Faculty 
of  Advocates,  worth  £  40  per  annum.  But  it  was  not  for 
the  salary  that  he  accepted  this  employment,  but  that  he 
might  have  easy  access  to  the  books  in  that  celebrated  li- 
brary ;  for,  to  my  certain  knowledge,  he  gave  every  farthing 
of  the  salary  to  families  in  distress.  Of  a  piece  with  this 
temper  was  his  curiosity  and  credulity,  which  were  without 
bounds,  a  specimen  of  which  shall  be  afterwards  given  when 
I  come  down  to  Militia  and  the  Poker.  His  economy  was 
strict,  as  he  loved  independency ;  and  yet  he  was  able  at 
that  time  to  give  suppers  to  his  friends  in  his  small  lodging 
in  the  Canongate.  He  took  much  to  the  company  of  the 
younger  clergy,  not  from  a  wish  to  bring  them  over  to  his 
opinions,  for  he  never  attempted  to  overturn  any  man's 
principles,  but  they  best  understood  his  notions,  and  could 
furnish  him  with  literary  conversation.  Robertson  and 
John  Home  and  Baimatine  and  I  lived  all  in  the  country, 
and  came  only  periodically  to  the  town.  Blair  and  Jardine 
both  lived  in  it,  and  suppers  being  the  only  fashionable  meal 
at  that  time,  we  dined  where  we  best  could,  and  by  cadies 
assembled  our  friends  to  meet  us  in  a  tavern  by  nine 
o'clock ;  and  a  fine  time  it  was  when  we  could  collect  David 
Hume,  Adam  Smith,  Adam  Ferguson,  Lord  Elibank,  and 
Drs.  Blair  and  Jardine,  on  an  hour's  warning.  I  remember 
one  night  that  David  Hume,  who,  having  dined  abroad, 
came  rather  late  to  us,  and  directly  pulled  a  large  key  from 
his  pocket,  which  he  laid  on  the  table.  This  he  said  was 
given  him  by  his  maid  Peggy  (much  more  like  a  man  than 


MY   FRIENDS.  301 

a  woman)  that  she  might  not  sit  up  for  him,  for  she  said 
when  the  honest  fellows  came  in  from  the  country,  he 
never  returned  home  till  after  one  o'clock.  This  intimacy 
of  the  young  clergy  with  David  Hume  enraged  the  zealots 
on  the  opposite  side,  who  little  knew  how  impossible  it 
was  for  him,  had  he  been  willing,  to  shake  their  prin- 
ciples. 

As  Mr.  Hume's  circumstances  improved  he  enlarged  his 
mode  of  living,  and  instead  of  the  roasted  hen  and  minced 
collops,  and  a  bottle  of  punch,  he  gave  both  elegant  dinners 
and  suppers,  and  the  best  claret,  and,  which  was  best  of 
all,  he  furnished  the  entertainment  with  the  most  instruc- 
tive and  pleasing  conversation,  for  he  assembled  whosoever 
were  most  knowing  and  agreeable  among  either  the  laity 
or  clergy.  This  he  always  did,  but  still  more  unsparingly 
when  he  became  what  he  called  rich.  For  innocent  mirth 
and  agreeable  raillery  I  never  knew  his  match.  Jardine, 
who  sometimes  bore  hard  upon  him,  —  for  he  had  much 
drollery  and  wit,  though  but  little  learning,  —  never  could 
overturn  his  temper.  Lord  Elibank  resembled  David  in 
his  talent  for  collecting  agreeable  companions  together,  and 
had  a  house  in  town  for  several  winters  chiefly  for  that 
purpose. 

David,  who  delighted  in  what  the  French  call  plaisan- 
terie,  with  the  aid  of  Miss  Nancy  Ord,  one  of  the  Chief 
Baron's  daughters,  contrived  and  executed  one  that  gave, 
him  very  great  delight.  As  the  New  Town  was  making 
its  progress  westward,  he  built  a  house  in  the  southwest 
corner  of  St.  Andrew  Square.  The  street  leading  south  to 
Princess  Street  had  not  yet  got  its  name  affixed,  but  they 
got  a  workman  early  one  morning  to  paint  on  the  corner- 
stone of  David's  house  "  St.  David's  Street,'*  where  it  re 
mains  to  this  day. 

He  was  at  first  quite  delighted  with  Ossian'e  poems,  and 
gloried  in  them ;  but  on  going  to  London  he  went  over  to 


302  ALEXANDER   CARLYLE. 

the  other  side,  and  loudly  affirmed  them  to  be   inventions 
of  Macpherson.     I  happened  to  say  one  day,  when  he  was 
declaiming  against  Macpherson,  that  I  had  met  with  nobody 
of  his  opinion  but  William  Caddel  of  Cockenzie,  and  Presi- 
dent Dundas,  which  he  took  ill,  and  was  some  time  of 
forgetting.     This  is  one  instance  of  what  Smellie  says  of 
him,  that  though  of  the  best  temper  in  the  world,  yet  he 
could  be  touched  by  opposition  or  rudeness.     This  was  the 
only  time  I  had  ever  observed  David's  temper  change.     I 
can   call  to  mind  an  instance   or  two  of  his  good-natured 
pleasantry.     Being  at  Gilmerton,  where  David  Hume  was 
on  a  visit,  Sir  David  Kinloch  made  him  go  to  Athlestane- 
ford  Church,  where  I  preached  for  John  Home.     When  we 
met  before  dinner,  "  What  did  you  mean,"  says  he  to  me, 
"  by  treating  John's  congregation  to-day  with  one  of  Cicero's 
academics?     I  did  not  think  that  such  heathen   morality 
would  have  passed  in  East  Lothian."     On  Monday,  when 
we  were  assembling  to  breakfast,  David  retired  to  the  enc 
of  the  dining-room,  when  Sir  David  entered :  "  What  are 
you  doing  there,  Davy  ?  come  to  your  breakfast."     "  Take 
away  the  enemy  first,"  says  David.     The  baronet,  thinking 
it  was  the  warm  fire  that  kept  David  in  the  lower  end  of 
the  room,  rung  the  bell  for  a  servant  to  carry  some  of  it  off. 
It  was  not  .the  fire  that  scared  David,  but  a  large  Bible  that 
was  left  on  a  stand  at  the  upper  end  of  the  room,  a  chapter 
of  which  had  been  read  at  the  family  prayers  the  night 
before,  that  good  custom  not  being  then  out  of  use  when 
clergymen   were  in  the  house.     Add  to  this  John  Home 
saying  to  him  at  the  Poker  Club,  when  everybody  wondered 
what  could  have  made  a  clerk  of  Sir  William  Forbes  run 
away  with  £900,  —  "I  know  that  very  well,"  says  John 
Home  to  David  ;  "  for  when  he  was  taken,  there  was  found 
in  his  pocket  your  Philosophical  Works  and  Boston's  Four- 
fold State  of  Man? 

David  Hume,  during  all  his  life,  had  written  the  most 


MY  FRIENDS.  303 

pleasing  and  agreeable  letters  to  his  friends.  I  have  pre- 
served two  of  these.  But  I  lately  saw  two  of  more  early 
dale  in  the  hands  of  Mr.  Sandiland  Dysart,  Esq.,  W.  S.,  to 
his  mother,  who  was  a  friend  of  David's,  and  a  very  accom- 
plished woman,  one  of  them  dated  in  1751,  on  occasion  of 
his  brother  Hume  of  NinewelTs  marriage ;  and  the  other  in 
1754,  with  a  present  of  the  first  volume  of  his  History,  both 
of  which  are  written  in  a  vein  of  pleasantry  and  playfulness 
which  nothing  can  exceed,  and  which  makes  me  think  that 
a  collection  of  his  letters  would  be  a  valuable  present  to  the 
world,  and  present  throughout  a  very  pleasing  picture  of  his 
mind. 

I  have  heard  him  say  that  Baron  Montesquieu,  when  he 
asked  him  if  he  did  not  think  that  there  would  soon  be  a 
revolution  in  France  favorable  to  liberty,  answered,  "  No, 
for  their  noblesse  had  all  become  poltroons."  He  said  that 
the  club  in  Paris  (Baron  Holbach's)  to  which  he  belonged 
were  of  opinion  that  Christianity  would  be  abolished  in 
Europe  by  the  end  of  the  eighteenth  century ;  and  that  they 
laughed  at  Andrew  Stuart  for  making  a  battle  in  favor  of  a 
future  state,  and  called  him  "  L'ame  Immortelle." 

David  Hume,  like  Smith,  had  no  discernment  at  all  of 
characters.  The  only  two  clergymen  whose  interests  he 
espoused,  and  for  one  of  whom  he  provided,  were  the  two 
silliest  fellows  in  the  Church.  With  every  opportunity,  he 
was  ridiculously  shy  of  asking  favors,  on  account  of  preserv- 
ing his  independence,  which  always  appeared  to  me  to  be  a 
very  foolish  kind  of  pride.  His  friend  John  Home,  with 
not  more  benevolence,  but  with  no  scruples  from  a  wish  of 
independence,  for  which  he  was  not  born,  availed  himself  of 
his  influence  and  provided  for  hundreds,  and  yet  he  never 
asked  anything  for  himself. 

Adam  Smith,  though  perhaps  only  second  to  David  in 
learning  and  ingenuity,  was  far  inferior  to  him  in  conversa- 
tional talents.  In  that  of  public  speaking  they  were  equal 


304  ALEXANDER   CARLYLE. 

—  David  never  tried  it,  and  I  never  heard  Adam  but  once, 
which  was  at  the  first  meeting  of  the  Select  Society,  when 
he  opened  up  the  design  of  the  meeting.  His  voice  was 
harsh  and  enunciation  thick,  approaching  to  stammering. 
His  conversation  was  not  colloquial,  but  like  lecturing,  in 
which  I  have  been  told  he  was  not  deficient,  especially  when 
he  grew  warm.  He  was  the  most  absent  man  in  company 
that  I  ever  saw,  moving  his  lips,  and  talking  to  himself,  and 
smiling,  in  the  midst  of  large  companies.  If  you  awaked 
him  from  his  reverie  and  made  him  attend  to  the  subject  of 
conversation,  he  immediately  began  a  harangue,  and  never 
stopped  till  he  told  you  all  he  knew  about  it,  with  the 
utmost  philosophical  ingenuity.  He  knew  nothing  of 
characters,  and  yet  was  ready  to  draw  them  on  the  slight- 
est invitation.  But  when  you  checked  him  or  doubted,  he 
retracted  with  the  utmost  ease,  and  contradicted  all  he  had 
been  saying.  His  journey  abroad  with  the  Duke  of  Buc- 
cleuch  cured  him  in  part  of  those  foibles;  but  still  he 
appeared  very  unfit  for  the  intercourse  of  the  world  as  a 
travelling  tutor.  But  the  Duke  was  a  character,  both  in 
point  of  heart  and  understanding,  to  surmount  all  disadvan- 
tages, —  he  could  learn  nothing  ill  from  a  philosopher  of 
the  utmost  probity  and  benevolence.  If  he  [Smith]  had 
been  more  a  man  of  address  and  of  the  world,  he  might 
perhaps  have  given  a  ply  to  the  Duke's  fine  mind,  which 
was  much  better  when  left  to  its  own  energy.  Charles 
Townshend  had  chosen  Smith,  not  for  his  fitness  for  the 
purpose,  but  for  his  own  glory  in  having  sent  an  eminent 
Scottish  philosopher  to  travel  with  the  Duke. 

Smith  had  from  the  Duke  a  bond  for  a  life  annuity  of 
£  300,  till  an  office  of  equal  value  was  obtained  for  him  in 
Britain.  When  the  Duke  got  him  appointed  a  Commis- 
sioner of  the  Customs  in  Scotland,  he  went  out  to  Dalkeith 
with  the  bond  in  his  pocket,  and,  offering  it  to  the  Duke, 
told  him  that  he  thought  himself  bound  in  honor  to  sur- 


MY   FRIENDS.  305 

render  the  bond,  as  his  Grace  had  now  got  him  a  place  of 
£  500.  The  Duke  answered  that  Mr.  Smith  seemed  more 
careful  of  his  own  honor  than  of  his,  which  he  found 
wounded  by  the  proposal.  Thus  acted  that  good  Duke, 
who,  being  entirely  void  of  vanity,  did  not  value  himself 
on  splendid  generosities.  He  had  acted  in  much  the  same 
manner  to  Dr.  Hallam,  who  had  been  his  tutor  at  Eton ; 
for  when  Mr.  Townshend  proposed  giving  Hallam  an  an- 
nuity of  £  100  when  the  Duke  was  taken  from  him,  "  No," 
says  he,  "  it  is  my  desire  that  Hallam  may  have  as  much  as 
Smith,  it  being  a  great  mortification  to  him  that  he  is  not  to 
travel  with  me." 

Though  Smith  had  some  little  jealousy  in  his  temper,  he 
had  the  most  unbounded  benevolence.  His  smile  of  appro- 
bation was  truly  captivating.  His  affectionate  temper  was 
proved  by  his  dutiful  attendance  on  his  mother.  One  in- 
stance I  remember  which  marked  his  character.  John 
Home  and  he,  travelling  down  from  London  together  [in 
1776],  met  David  Hume  going  to  Bath  for  the  recovery  of 
his  health.  He  anxiously  wished  them  both  to  return  with 
him  ;  John  agreed,  but  Smith  excused  himself  on  account  of 
the  state  of  his  mother's  health,  whom  he  needs  must  see. 
Smith's  fine  writing  is  chiefly  displayed  in  his  book  on 
Moral  Sentiment,  which  is  the  pleasantest  and  most  elo- 
quent book  on  the  subject.  His  Wealth  of  Nations,  from 
which  he  was  judged  to  be  an  inventive  genius  of  the  first 
order,  is  tedious  and  full  of  repetition.  His  separate  essays 
in  the  second  volume  have  the  air  of  being  occasional  pam- 
phlets, without  much  force  or  determination.  On  political 
subjects  his  opinions  were  not  very  sound. 

Dr.  Adam  Ferguson  was  a  very  different  kind  of  man. 
He  was  the  son  of  a  Highland  clergyman,  who  was  much 
respected,  and  had  good  connections.  He  had  the  pride 
and  high  spirit  of  his  countrymen.  He  was  bred  at  St. 
Andrews  University,  and  had  gone  early  into  the  world 

20 


306  ALEXANDER   CARLYLE. 

for  being  a  favorite  of  a  Duchess  Dowager  of  Athole,  and 
bred  to  the  Church,  she  had  him  appointed  chaplain  to  the 
42d  regiment,  then  commanded  by  Lord  John  Murray,  her 
son,  when  he  was  not  more  than  twenty-two.  The  Duchess 
had  imposed  a  very  difficult  task  upon  him,  which  was  to  be 
a  kind  of  tutor  or  guardian  to  Lord  John ;  that  is  to  say,  to 
gain  his  confidence  and  keep  him  in  peace  with  his  officers, 
which  it  was  difficult  to  do.  This,  however,  he  actually 
accomplished,  by  adding  all  the  decorum  belonging  to  the 
clerical  character  to  the  manners  of  a  gentleman  ;  the  effect 
of  which  was,  that  he  was  highly  respected  by  all  the 
officers,  and  adored  by  his  countrymen,  the  common  sol- 
diers. He  remained  chaplain  to  this  regiment,  and  went 
about  with  them,  till  1755,  when  they  went  to  America,  on 
which  occasion  he  resigned,  as  it  did  not  suit  his  views  to 
attend  them  there.  He  was  a  year  or  two  with  them  in 
Ireland,  and  likewise  attended  them  on  the  expedition  to 
Brittany  under  General  Sinclair,  where  his  friends  David 
Hume  and  Colonel  Edmonstone  also  were.  This  turned 
his  mind  to  the  study  of  war,  which  appears  in  his  Roman 
History,  where  many  of  the  battles  are  better  described  than 
by  any  historian  but  Polybius,  who  was  an  eyewitness  to  so 
many. 

He  had  the  manners  of  a  man  of  the  world,  and  the  de- 
meanor of -a  high-bred  gentleman,  insomuch  that  his  com- 
pany was  much  sought  after ;  for  though  he  conversed  with 
ease,  it  was  with  a  dignified  reserve.  If  he  had  any  fault 
in  conversation,  it  was  of  a  piece  with  what  I  have  said  of 
his  temper,  for  the  elevation  of  his  mind  prompted  him  to 
such  sudden  transitions  and  dark  allusions  that  it  was  not 
always  easy  to  follow  him,  though  he  was  a  very  good 
speaker.  He  had  another  talent,  unknown  to  any  but  his 
intimates,  which  was  a  boundless  vein  of  humor,  which  he 
indulged  when  there  were  none  others  present,  and  which 
flowed  from  his  pen  in  every  familiar  letter  he  wrote.  He 


MY  FRIENDS.  307 

had  the  faults,  however,  that  belonged  to  that  character,  for 
he  was  apt  to  be  jealous  of  his  rivals,  and  indignant  against 
assumed  superiority.  His  wife  used  to  say  that  it  was  very 
fortunate  that  I  was  so  much  in  Edinburgh,  as  I  was  a  great 
peacemaker  among  them.  She  did  not  perceive  that  her 
own  husband  was  the  most  difficult  of  them  all.  But  as 
they  were  all  honorable  men  in  the  highest  degree,  John 
Home  and  I  together  kept  them  on  very  good  terms:  I 
mean  by  them,  Smith  and  Ferguson  and  David  Hume ;  for 
Robertson  was  very  good-natured,  and  soon  disarmed  the 
failing  of  Ferguson,  of  whom  he  was  afraid.  With  respect 
to  taste,  we  held  David  Hume  and  Adam  Smith  inferior  to 
the  rest,  for  they  were  both  prejudiced  in  favor  of  the 
French  tragedies,  and  did  not  sufficiently  appreciate  Shake- 
speare and  Milton.  Their  taste  was  a  rational  act,  rather 
than  the  instantaneous  effect  of  fine  feeling.  David  Hume 
said  Ferguson  had  more  genius  than  any  of  them,  as  he 
had  made  himself  so  much  master  of  a  difficult  science  — 
viz.  Natural  Philosophy,  which  he  had  never  studied  but 
when  at  college  —  in  three  months,  as  to  be  able  to 
teach  it. 

The  time  came  when  those  who  were  overawed  by  Fer- 
guson repaid  him  for  his  haughtiness ;  for  when  his  Roman 
History  was  published,  at  a  period  when  he  had  lost  his 
health,  and  had  not  been  able  to  correct  it  diligently,  by  a 
certain  propensity  they  had,  unknown  to  themselves,  ac- 
quired, to  disparage  everything  that  came  from  Ferguson, 
they  did  his  book  more  hurt  than  they  could  have  done  by 
open  criticism.  It  was  provoking  to  hear  those  who  were 
so  ready  to  give  loud  praises  to  very  shallow  and  imperfect 
English  productions  —  to  curry  favor,  as  we  supposed,  with 
the  booksellers  and  authors  concerned  —  taking  every 
opportunity  to  undermine  the  reputation  of  Ferguson's 
book.  "  It  was  not  a  Roman  History,"  said  they  (which 
it  did  not  say  it  was).  "  This  delineation  of  the  constitution 


308  ALEXANDER  CARLYLE. 

of  the  Republic  is  well  sketched ;  but  for  the  rest,  it  is  any- 
thing  but  history,  and  then  it  is  so  incorrect  that  is  a  perfect 
shame."  All  his  other  books  met  with  the  same  treatment^ 
while,  at  the  same  time,  there  were  a  few  of  us  who  could 
not  refrain  from  saying  that  Ferguson's  was  the  best  history 
of  Rome ;  that  what  he  had  omitted  was  fabulous  or  insig- 
nificant, and  what  he  had  wrote  was  more  profound  in 
research  into  characters,  and  gave  a  more  just  delineation 
of  them  than  any  book  now  extant.  The  same  thing  we 
said  of  his  book  on  Moral  Philosophy,  which  we  held  to  be 
the  book  that  did  the  most  honor  of  any  to  the  Scotch  phi- 
losophers, because  it  gave  the  most  perfect  picture  of  moral 
virtues,  with  all  their  irresistible  attractions.  His  book  on 
Civil  Society  ought  only  to  be  considered  as  a  college  ex- 
ercise, and  yet  there  is  in  it  a  turn  of  thought  and  a  species 
of  eloquence  peculiar  to  Ferguson.  Smith  had  been  weak 
enough  to  accuse  him  of  having  borrowed  some  of  his  inven- 
tions without  owning  them.  This  Ferguson  denied,  but 
owned  he  derived  many  notions  from  a  French  author,  and 
that  Smith  had  been  there  before  him.  David  Hume  did 
not  live  to  see  Ferguson's  History,  otherwise  his  candid 
praise  would  have  prevented  all  the  subtle  remarks  of  the 
jealous  or  resentful. 

With  respect  to  Robertson  and  Blair,  their  lives  and 
characters  have  been  fully  laid  before  the  public,  —  by 
Professor  Dugald  Stewart  in  a  long  life  of  Robertson, 
where,  though  the  picture  is  rather  in  disjointed  members, 
yet  there  is  hardly  anything  omitted  that  tends  to  make  a 
judicious  reader  master  of  the  character.  Dr.  Blair's  char- 
acter is  more  obvious  in  a  short  but  very  elegant  and  true 
account  of  him,  drawn  up  by  Dr.  Finlayson.  John  Hill  is 
writing  a  more  diffuse  account  of  the  latter,  which  may  not 
be  so  like.  To  the  character  of  Robertson  I  have  only  to 
add  here,  that,  though  he  was  truly  a  very  great  master  of 
conversation,  and  in  general  perfectly  agreeable,  yet  he 


MY  FRIENDS.  309 

appeared  sometimes  so  very  foiid  of  talking,  even  when 
showing-off  was  out  of  the  question,  and  so  much  addicted 
to  the  translation  of  other  people's  thoughts,  that  he  some- 
times appeared  tedious  to  his  best  friends.  Being  on  one 
occasion  invited  to  dine  with  Patrick  Robertson,  his  brother, 
I  missed  my  friend,  whom  I  had  met  there  on  all  former 
occasions ;  "  I  have  not  invited  him  to-day,"  says  Peter, 
"•  for  I  have  a  very  good  company,  and  he  '11  let  nobody 
speak  but  himself.  Once  he  was  staying  with  me  for  a 
week,  and  I  earned  him  to  dine  with  our  parish  club,  who 
were  fully  assembled  to  see  and  hear  Dr.  Robertson,  but 
Dr.  Finlay  of  Drunimore  took  it  in  his  head  to  come  that 
day,  where  he  had  not  been  for  a  year  before,  who  took  the 
lead,  being  then  rich  and  self-sufficient,  though  a  great 
babbler,  and  entirely  disappointed  the  company,  and  gave 
us  all  the  headache.  He  [Robertson]  was  very  much  a 
master  of  conversation,  and  very  desirous  to  lead  it,  and  to 
make  dissertations  and  raise  theories  that  sometimes  pro- 
voked the  laugh  against  him.  One  instance  of  this  was 
when  he  had  gone  a  jaunt  into  England  with  some  of 
Henry  Duudas's  (Lord  Melville's)  family.  He  [Dundas] 
and  Mr.  Baron  Cockburn  and  Robert  Sinclair  were  on 
horseback,  and  seeing  a  gallows  on  a  neighboring  hillock, 
they  rode  round  to  have  a  nearer  view  of  the  felon  on  the 
gallows.  When  they  met  in  the  inn,  Robertson  immedi- 
ately began  a  dissertation  on  the  character  of  nations,  and 
how  much  the  English,  like  the  Romans,  were  hardened  by 
their  cruel  diversions  of  cock-fighting,  bull-baiting,  bruising, 
&c. :  for  had  they  not  observed  three  Englishmen  on  horse- 
back do  what  no  Scotchman  or Here  Dundas,  having 

compassion,  interrupted  him,  and  said,  "  What !  did  you  not 
know,  Principal,  that  it  was  Cockburn  and  Sinclair  and 
me  ? "  This  put  an  end  to  theories,  &c.,  for  that  day. 
Robertson's  translations  and  paraphrases  on  other  people's 
thoughts  were  so  beautiful  and  so  harmless  that  I  never 


310  ALEXANDER   CARLYLE. 

saw  anybody  lay  claim  to  their  own ;  but  it  was  not  so  when 
he  forgot  himself  so  far  as  to  think  he  had  been  present 
where  he  had  not  been,  and  done  what  he  had  not  the  least 
hand  in,  —  one  very  singular  instance  of  which  I  remember. 
Hugh  Bannatine  and  some  clergyman  of  Haddington  Presby 
tery  came  to  town  in  great  haste,  on  their  being  threatened 
with  having  their  goods  distrained  for  payment  of  the  win- 
dow tax.  One  of  them  called  on  me  as  he  passed ;  but  as 
I  was  abroad,  he  left  a  note  (or  told  Mrs.  C.),  to  come  to 
them  directly.  I  rode  instantly  to  town  and  met  them,  and 
it  was  agreed  on  to  send  immediately  to  the  solicitor,  James 
Montgomery.  A  cady  was  despatched,  but  he  could  not  be 
found,  till  I  at  last  heard  his  voice  as  I  passed  the  door  of  a 
neighboring  room.  He  came  to  us  on  being  sent  for,  and 
he  immediately  granted  the  alarmed  brethren  a  sist.  Not  a 
week  after,  three  or  four  of  the  same  clergymen,  dining  at 
the  Doctor's  house,  where  I  was,  the  business  was  talked  of, 
when  he  said,  "  Was  not  I  very  fortunate  in  ferreting  out 
the  solicitor  at  Walker's,  when  no  cady  could  find  him  ? " 
"  No,  no,"  says  I,  "  Principal ;  I  had  that  good-luck,  and 
you  were  not  so  much  as  at  the  meeting."  We  had  sent  to 
him,  and  he  could  not  come.  "  Well,  well,"  replied  he,  "  I 
have  heard  so  much  about  it  that  I  thought  I  had  been 
there."  He  was  the  best- tempered  man  in  the  world,  and 
the  young  gentlemen  who  had  lived  for  many  years  in  his 
house  declared  they  never  saw  him  once  ruffled.  His  table, 
which  had  always  been  hospitable,  even  when  his  income 
was  small,  became  full  and  elegant  when  his  situation  was 
improved.  As  he  loved  a  long  repast,  as  he  called  it,  he 
was  as  ready  to  give  it  at  home  as  to  receive  it  abroad. 
The  softness  of  his  temper,  and  his  habits  at  the  head  of  a 
party,  led  him  to  seem  to  promise  what  he  was  not  able  to 
perform,  which  weakness  raised  up  to  him  some  very  invet- 
erate enemies,  while  at  the  same  time  his  true  friends  saw 
that  those  weaknesses  were  rather  amiable  than  provoking. 


MY  FRIENDS.  311 

He  was  not  so  much  beloved  by  women  as  by  men,  which 
we  laughingly  used  to  say  was  owing  to  their  rivalship  as 
talkers,  but  was  much  more  owing  to  his  having  been  very 
little  in  company  with  ladies  in  his  youth.  He  was  early 
married,  though  his  wife  (a  very  good  one)  was  not  his  first 
choice,  as  Stewart  in  his  Life  would  make  us  believe. 
Though  not  very  complaisant  to  women,  he  was  not  beyond 
their  regimen  any  more  than  Dr.  George  Wishart,  for  in- 
stances of  both  their  frailties  on  that  side  could  be  quoted. 
'T  is  as  well  to  mention  them  here.  In  the  year  '78,  when 
Drs.  Robertson  and  Drysdale  had  with  much  pains  prepared 
an  assembly  to  elect  young  Mr.  Robertson  into  the  Procura- 
tor's chair,  and  to  get  Dr.  Drysdale  chosen  Principal  Clerk 
to  the  Assembly,  as  colleague  and  successor  to  Dr.  George 
Wishart,  it  was  necessary  that  Dr.  Wishart  should  resign, 
in  order  to  his  being  re-elected  with  Drysdale;  but  this, 
when  first  applied  to,  he  positively  refused  to  do,  because  he 
had  given  his  word  to  Dr.  Dick  that  he  would  give  him  a 
year's  warning  before  he  resigned.  In  spite  of  this  declara- 
tion a  siege  was  laid  to  the  honest  man  by  amazons.  After 
several  hearings,  in  which  female  eloquence  was  displayed 
in  all  its  forms,  and  after  many  days,  he  yielded,  as  he  said 
himself,  to  the  earnest  and  violent  solicitations  of  Dr.  Drys- 
dale's  family.  He  never  after  had  any  intercourse  with  that 
family,  nor  saw  them  more.  Mr.  James  Lindsay  told  me 
this  anecdote. 

Dr.  Robertson's  weakness  was  as  follows :  He  had  en- 
gaged heartily  with  me,  when  in  1788  I  stood  candidate  for 
the  clerkship,  Dr.  Drysdale  having  shown  evident  marks  of 
decline.  In  the  year  1787,  I  had  a  long  evening's  walk 
with  the  Procurator,  when,  after  mentioning  every  candidate 
for  that  office  we  could  think  of,  the  Procurator  at  last  said 
that  nobody  had  such  a  good  chance  as  myself.  After  a 
long  discussion  I  yielded,  and  we  in  due  form  communicated 
this  resolution  to  his  father,  who  consented  with  all  hia 


312  ALEXANDER  CARLYLE. 

heart,  and  gave  us  much  advice  and  some  aid.  When  the 
vacancy  happened,  in  1789,  Robert  Adam  assisted  his 
brother-in-law  with  all  his  interest,  which  was  considerable. 
In  the  mean  time  the  same  influence  was  used  with  Dr. 
Robertson  as  had  been  with  Dr.  Wishart,  in  a  still  more 
formidable  shape ;  for  Mrs.  Drysdale  was  his  cousin-german, 
and  threatened  him  with  the  eternal  hate  of  all  the  family. 
He  also  yielded  ;  and  Robert  Adam,  when  seriously  pressed 
with  a  view  to  drop  his  canvass  if  Robertson  advised  to  — 
"  No,"  Robertson  said,  "•  go  on  "  ;  as  he  thought  he  had  the 
best  chance.  Robert  Adam  told  this  to  Professor  Ferguson 
when  he  solicited  his  vote. 

Robertson's  conversation  was  not  always  so  prudent  as 
his  conduct,  one  instance  of  which  was  his  always  asserting 
that  any  minister  of  state  who  did  not  take  care  of  himself 
when  he  had  an  opportunity  was  no  very  wise  man.  This 
maxim  shocked  most  young  people,  who  thought  the  Doc- 
tor's standard  of  public  virtue  was  not  very  high.  This 
manner  of  talking  likewise  seconded  a  notion  that  prevailed 
that  he  was  a  very  selfish  man.  With  all  those  defects,  his 
domestic  society  was  pleasing  beyond  measure  ;  for  his  wife, 
though  not  a  woman  of  parts,  was  well  suited  to  him,  who 
was  more  fitted  to  lead  than  to  be  led ;  and  his  sons  and 
daughters  led  so  happy  a  life  that  his  guests,  which  we  were 
often  for  a  week  together,  met  with  nothing  but  welcome,  and 
peace,  and  joy.  This  intercourse  was  not  much  diminished 
by  his  having  not  put  any  confidence  in  me  when  he  left  the 
business  of  the  Church,  further  than  saying  that  he  intended 
to  do  it.  Though  he  knew  that  I  was  much  resorted  to  for 
advice  when  he  retired,  he  never  talked  to  me  on  the  sub- 
ject, at  which  I  was  somewhat  indignant.  His  deviations  in 
politics  lessened  the  freedom  of  our  conversation,  though  we 
Btill  continued  in  good  habits;  but  ever  after  he  left  the 
leading  in  Church  affairs,  he  appeared  to  me  to  have  lost  his 
spirits :  and  still  more,  when  the  magistrates  resorted  to  Dr 


MY  FRIENDS.  313 

Blair,  insvead  of  him,  for  advice  about  their  choice  of  pro- 
fessors and  ministers.  I  had  discovered  his  having  sacri- 
ficed me  to  Mrs.  Drysdale,  in  1789,  but  was  long  acquainted 
with  his  weaknesses,  and  forgave  him;  nor  did  I  ever 
upbraid  him  with  it  but  in  general  terms,  such  as  that  I 
had  lost  the  clerkship  by  the  keenness  of  my  oppo'nents  and 
the  coldness  of  my  friends.  I  had  such  a  conscious  superi- 
ority over  him  in  that  affair  that  I  did  not  choose  to  put  an 
old  friend  to  the  trial  of  making  his  fault  greater  by  a  lame 
excuse. 

Dr.  Blair  was  a  different  kind  of  man  from  Robertson, 
and  his  character  is  very  justly  delineated  by  Dr.  Finlayson, 
so  far  as  he  goes.  Robertson  was  most  sagacious,  Blair  was 
most  naif.  Neither  of  them  could  be  said  to  have  either  wit 
or  humor.  Of  the  latter  Robertson  had  a  small  tincture,  — 
Blair  had  hardly  a  relish  for  it.  Robertson  had  a  bold  and 
ambitious  mind,  and  a  strong  desire  to  make  himself  con- 
siderable ;  Blair  was  timid  and  unambitious,  and  withheld 
himself  from  public  business  of  every  kind,  and  seemed  to 
have  no  wish  but  to  be  admired  as  a  preacher,  parficularly 
by  the  ladies.  His  conversation  was  so  infantine  that  many 
people  thought  it  impossible,  at  first  sight,  that  he  could  be 
a  man  of  sense  or  genius.  He  was  as  eager  about  a  new 
paper  to  his  wife's  drawing-room,  or  his  own  new  wig,  as 
about  a  new  tragedy  or  a  new  epic  poem.  Not  long  before 
his  death  I  called  upon  him,  when  I  found  him  restless  and 
fidgety.  "What  is  the  matter  with  you  to-day,"  says  I, 
"  my  good  friend,  —  are  you  well  ?  "  "  O  yes,"  says  he, 
"  but  I  must  dress  myself,  for  the  Duchess  of  Leinster  has 
ordered  her  granddaughters  not  to  leave  Scotland  without 
seeing  me."  "  Go  and  dress  yourself,  Doctor,  and  I  shall 
read  this  novel ;  for  I  am  resolved  to  see  the  Duchess  of 
Leinster's  granddaughters,  for  I  knew  their  father  and 
grandfather."  This  being  settled,  the  young  ladies,  with 
their  governess,  arrived  at  one,  and  turned  out  poor  little 


314  ALEXANDER  CARLYLE. 

girls  of  twelve  and  thirteen,  who  could  hardly  be  supposed 
to  carry  a  well-turned  compliment  which  the  Doctor  gave 
them  in  charge  to  their  grandmother. 

Robertson  had  so  great  a  desire  to  shine  himself,  that  I 
hardly  ever  saw  him  patiently  bear  anybody  else's  sho wing- 
off  but  E>r.  Johnson  and  Garrick.  Blair,  on  the  contrary, 
though  capable  of  the  most  profound  conversation,  when  cir- 
cumstances led  to  it,  had  not  the  least  desire  to  shine,  but 
was  delighted  beyond  measure  to  show  other  people  in  their 
best  guise  to  his  friends.  "  Did  not  I  show  you  the  lion 
well  to-day  ? "  used  he  to  say  after  the  exhibition  of  a  re- 
markable stranger.  For  a  vain  man,  he  was  the  least 
envious  I  ever  knew.  He  had  truly  a  pure  mind,  in  which 
there  was  not  the  least  malignity ;  for  though  he  was  of  a 
quick  and  lively  temper,  and  apt  to  be  warm  and  impatient 
about  trifles,  his  wife,  who  was  a  superior  woman,  only 
laughed,  and  his  friends  joined  her.  Though  Robertson 
was  never  ruffled,  he  had  more  animosity  in  his  nature  than 
Blair.  They  were  both  reckoned  selfish  by  those  who 
envied  their  prosperity,  but  on  very  unequal  grounds ;  for 
though  Blair  talked  selfishly  enough  sometimes,  yet  he 
never  failed  in  generous  actions.  In  one  respect  they  were 
quite  alike.  Having  been  bred  at  a  time  when  the  common 
people  thought  to  play  with  cards  or  dice  was  a  sin,  and 
everybody  thought  it  an  indecorum  in  clergymen,  they  could 
neither  of  them  play  at  golf  or  bowls,  and  far  less  at  cards 
or  backgammon,  and  on  that  account  were  very  unhappy 
when  from  home  in  friends'  houses  in  the  country  in  rainy 
weather.  As  I  had  set  the  first  example  of  playing  at  cards 
at  home  with  unlocked  doors,  and  so  relieved  the  clergy 
from  ridicule  on  that  side,  they  both  learned  to  play  at 
whist  after  they  were  sixty.  Robertson  did  very  well,  — 
Blair  never  shone.  He  had  his  country  quarters  for  two 
summers  in  my  parish,  where  he  and  his  wife  were  quite 
happy.  We  were  much  together.  Mrs.  C.,  who  had  wit 


MY   FRIENDS.  315 

and  humor  in  a  high  degree,  and  an  acuteness  and  extent  of 
mind  that  made  her  fit  to  converse  with  philosophers,  and 
indeed  a  great  favorite  with  them  all,  gained  much  upon 
Blair;  and,  as  Mrs.  B.  alleged,  could  make  him  believe 
whatever  she  pleased.  They  took  delight  in  raising  the 
wonder  of  the  sage  Doctor.  "  Who  told  you  that  story,  my 
dear  Doctor  ?  "  "  No,"  says  he,  "  don't  you  doubt  it,  for  it 
was  Ulrs.  C.  who  told  me."  On  my  laughing,  —  "  and  so, 
so,"  said  he,  "  I  must  hereafter  make  allowance  for  her  imag- 
ination." 

Blair  had  lain  under  obligation  to  Lord  Leven's  family 
for  his  first  church,  which  he  left  within  the  year;  but 
though  that  connection  was  so  soon  dissolved,  and  though 
Blair  took  a  side  in  Church  politics  wholly  opposite  to 
Lord  Leven's,  the  Doctor  always  behaved  to  the  family 
with  great  respect,  and  kept  up  a  visiting  correspondence 
with  them  all  his  life.  Not  so  Robertson  with  the  Arniston 
family,  who  had  got  him  the  church  of  Gladsmuir.  The 
first  President  failed  and  died  —  not,  hoAvever,  till  he  had 
marked  his  approbation  of  Robertson  —  in  1751.  His 
manner  had  not  been  pleasing  to  him,  so  that  he  was  alien- 
ated till  Harry  grew  up ;  but  him  he  deserted  also,  on  the 
change  in  1782,  being  dazzled  with  the  prospect  of  his  son's 
having  charge  of  ecclesiastical  affairs,  as  his  cousin  John 
Adam  was  to  have  of  political,  during  Rockingham's  new 
ministry.  This  threw  a  cloud  on  Robertson  which  was 
never  dispelled.  Blah*  had  for  a  year  been  tutor  to  Simon 
Fraser,  Lord  Lovat's  eldest  son,  whose  steady  friendship  he 
preserved  to  the  last,  though  the  General  was  not  remark- 
able for  that  amiable  weakness ;  witness  the  saying  of  a 
common  soldier  whom  he  had  often  promised  to  make  a 
sergeant,  but  never  performed,  "  O  Simon,  Simon,  as  long 
as  you  continue  to  live,  Lord  Lovat  is  not  dead." 

Five  or  six  days  before  he  [Blair]  died,  finding  him  well 
and  in  good  spirits,  I  said  to  him,  "  Since  you  don't  choose  to 


316  ALEXANDER  CARLYLE. 

dine  abroad  in  this  season  (December),  you  may  at  least  let 
a  friend  or  two  dine  with  you."  "  Well,  well,  come  you  and 
dine  with  me  to-morrow,"  looking  earnestly  at  Miss  Hunter, 
his  niece.  "  I  am  engaged  to-morrow,  but  I  can  return  at 
four  to-day."  He  looked  more  earnestly  at  his  niece. 
"  What 's  to  hinder  him  ?  "  said  she,  meaning  to  answer  his 
look,  which  said,  "  Have  you  any  dinner  to-day,  Betty  ? " 
I  returned,  accordingly,  at  four,  and  never  passed  four 
hours  more  agreeably  with  him,  nor  had  more  enlightened 
conversation.  Nay  more,  three  days  before  his  death  he 
sent  to  John  Home  a  part  of  his  History,  with  two  or  three 
pages  of  criticism  on  that  part  of  it  that  relates  to  Provost 
Drummond,  in  which  he  and  I  thought  John  egregiously 
wrong. 

It  was  long  before  Blair's  circumstances  were  full,  yet  he 
lived  handsomely,  and  had  literary  strangers  at  his  house,  as 
well  as  many  friends.  A  task  imposed  on  both  Robertson 
and  Blair  was  reading  manuscript  prepared  for  the  press,  of 
which  Blair  had  the  greatest  share  of  the  poetry,  and  Rob- 
ertson of  the  other  writings,  and  they  were  both  kind 
encouragers  of  young  men  of  merit. 


BEATRICE'S  SONG. 

BY  PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 

COME,  I  will  sing  you  some  low,  sleepy  tune, 
Not  cheerful,  nor  yet  sad ;  some  dull  old  thing 
Some  outworn  and  unused  monotony, 
Such  as  our  country  gossips  sing  and  spin, 
Till  they  almost  forget  they  live  :  lie  down ! 
So ;  that  will  do.     Have  I  forgot  the  words  ? 
Faith !  they  are  sadder  than  I  thought  they  wer«» 

SONG. 

False  friend,  wilt  thou  smile  or  weep 
When  my  life  is  laid  asleep  ? 
Little  cares  for  a  smile  or  a  tear 
The  clay-cold  corpse  upon  the  bier ; 

Farewell!    Heigh-ho! 

What  is  this  whispers  low  ? 
There  is  a  snake  in  thy  smile,  my  dear 
And  bitter  poison  within  thy  tear. 

Sweet  sleep !  were  death  like  to  thee, 
Or  if  thou  couldst  mortal  be, 
I  would  close  these  eyes  of  pain ; 
When  to  wake  ?    Never  again. 

O  World !  farewell ! 

Listen  to  the  passing  bell ! 
It  says,  thou  and  I  must  part, 
With  a  light  and  a  heavy  heart 


THANATOPSIS, 

BY  WILLIAM   CULLEN  BRYANT. 


TO  him  who,  in  the  love  of  Nature,  holds 
Communion  with  her  visible  forms,  she  speaks 
A  various  language  :  for  his  gayer  hours 
She  has  a  voice  of  gladness,  and  a  smile 
And  eloquence  of  beauty  ;  and  she  glides 
Into  his  darker  musings  with  a  mild 
And  gentle  sympathy,  that  steals  away 
Their  sharpness,  ere  he  is  aware.     When  thoughts 
Of  the  last  bitter  hour  come  like  a  blight 
Over  thy  spirit,  and  sad  images 
Of  the  stern  agony,  and  shroud,  and  pall, 
And  breathless  darkness,  and  the  narrow  house. 
Make  thee  'to  shudder,  and  grow  sick  at  heart, 
Go  forth  under  the  open  sky,  and  list 
To  Nature's  teachings,  while  from  all  around  — 
Earth  and  her  waters,  and  the  depths  of  air  — 
Comes  a  still  voice,  —  Yet  a  few  days,  and  thee 
The  all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more 
In  all  his  course ;  nor  yet  in  the  cold  ground, 
Where  thy  pale  form  was  laid,  with  many  tears, 
Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean,  shall  exist 
Thy  image.     Earth,  that  nourished  thee,  shall  claim 
Thy  growth,  to  be  resolved  to  earth  again ; 
And,  lost  each  human  trace,  surrendering  up 


THANATOPSrS.  319 

Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go 

To  mix  forever  with  the  elements ; 

To  be  a  brother  to  the  insensible  rock, 

And  to  the  sluggish  clod,  which  the  rude  swain 

Turns  with  his  share,  and  treads  upon.     The  oak 

Shall  send  his  roots  abroad,  and  pierce  thy  mould. 

Yet  not  to  thine  eternal  resting-place 
Shalt  thou  retire  alone,  — nor  couldst  thou  wish 
Couch  more  magnificent.     Thou  shalt  lie  down 
With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world,  —  with  kings, 
The  powerful  of  the  earth,  —  the  wise,  the  good. 
Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages  past, 
All  in  one  mighty  sepulchre.     The  hills, 
Rock-ribbed,  and  ancient  as  the  sun  ;  the  vales 
Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  between  ; 
The  venerable  woods;  rivers  that  move 
In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks, 
That  make  the  meadows  green  ;  and,  poured  round  all, 
Old  ocean's  gray  and  melancholy  waste, — 
Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 
Of  the  great  tomb  of  man  !     The  golden  sun, 
The  planets,  all  the  infinite  host  of  heaven, 
Are  shining  on  the  sad  abodes  of  death, 
Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages.     All  that  tread 
The  globe  are  but  a  handful  to  the  tribes 
That  slumber  in  its  bosom.     Take  the  wings 
Of  morning,  traverse  Barca's  desert  sands, 
Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  woods 
Where  rolls  the  Oregon,  and  hears  no  sound 
Save  his  own  dashings, —  yet  the  dead  are  there  ! 
And  millions  in  those  solitudes,  since  first 
The  flight  of  years  began,  have  laid  them  down 
In  their  last  sleep,  —  the  dead  reign  there  alone  ! 
So  shalt  thou  rest ;  and  what  if  thou  withdraw 


320  WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT. 

In  silence  from  the  living,  and  no  friend 
Take  note  of  thy  departure  ?     All  that  breathe 
Will  share  thy  destiny.     The  gay  will  laugh 
When  thou  art  gone,  the  solemn  brood  of  care 
Plod  on,  and  each  one,  as  before,  will  chase 
His  favorite  phantom ;  yet  all  these  shall  leave 
Their  mirth  and  their  employments,  and  shall  come 
And  make  their  bed  with  thee.     As  the  long  train 
Of  ages  glide  away,  the  sons  of  men  — 
The  youth  in  life's  green  spring,  and  he  who  goes 
In  the  full  strength  of  years,  matron  and  maid, 
And  the  sweet  babe,  and  the  gray-headed  man  — 
Shall,  one  by  one,  be  gathered  to  thy  -side 
By  those  who  in  their  turn  shall  follow  them. 

So  live,  that  when  thy  summons  comes  to  join 
The  innumerable  caravan  that  moves 
To  the  pale  realms  of  shade,  where  each  shall  take 
His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death, 
Thou  go  not,  like  the  quarry-slave  at  night, 
Scourged  to  his  dungeon,  but,  sustained  ami1  auulhud 
Span  'unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave 
Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams. 

:   :UC     -(T^      S*r*~*- 


GOOD     COMPANY 

FOR  EVERY  DAY  IN  THE  YEAR 


'Good  Company  ....  well  approved  in  all." 

SHAKESPEARE. 


CONTENTS. 

Pag« 
JOHN  G.  WHITTIER:  Yankee  Gypsies        ...  1 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL  :  Dara 16 

THOMAS  CARLYLE  :   Cromwell 19 

T.  WESTWOOD:  Little  Bell 86 

ROSE  TERRY  :  The  Mormon's  Wife     ....  89 

JOHN  GIBSON  LOCKHART  :  Beyond        ....  109 

JOHN  MILTON  :  Autobiographical  Passages  .        .        .  110 
WILLIAM  ALLINGHAM  :  Wakening          .        .        .        .117 

EDMUND  LODGE  :  John  Graham          .        .        .        .  118 

W.   EDMONDSTOUNE    AYTOUN:    The   Burial-March   of 

Dundee 128 

GOETHE  :  Mignon  as  an  Angel    .        .        .        .        .  134 

MRS.  GASKELL:  The  Cage  at  Cranford.        .        .  .136 

EDMUND  SPENSER  :  Verses  on  Sir  Philip  Sidney       .  150 

GEORGE  TICKNOR  :  Prescott's  Infirmity  of  Sight    .  .152 

DANTE:  Beatrice 168 


.• 


17  CONTENTS. 

• 

ROBERT  SOUTHEY:  A  Love  Story         .        .        .  .170 

BAYARD  TAYLOR  :  The  Mystic  Summer    ...  236 

MRS.  JAMESON  :  Two  of  the  Old  Masters      .        .  .239 

FREDERICK  TENNYSON:  The  Poet's  Heart         .        .  261 

GIORGIO  VASARI  :  Character  of  Fra  Angelico       .  .265 

WILLIAM  BLAKE:   Songs 267 

J.  HAIN  FRISWELL:  Upon  Growing  Old       .        .  .277 

R.  W.  EMERSON:  The  Titmouse         .        .        .        .  284 

NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE  :  Little  Pansie        .        .  .     288 

H.  W.  LONGFELLOW:  Palingenesis     ....  305 

WASHINGTON  IRVING  :   Rip  Van  Winkle    .        .  .     308 


YANKEE   GYPSIES. 


BY  JOHN  G.  WHITTIER. 

"  Here 's  to  budgets,  packs,  and  wallets , 
Here's  to  all  the  wandering  train."  —  BURNS. 

I  CONFESS  it,  I  am  keenly  sensitive  to  "  skyey  influ- 
ences." I  profess  no  indifference  to  the  movements  of 
that  capricious  old  gentleman  known  as  the  clerk  of  the 
weather.  I  cannot  conceal  my  interest  in  the  behavior  of 
that  patriarchal  bird  whose  wooden  similitude  gyrates  on 
the  church  spire.  Winter  proper  is  well  enough.  Let  the 
thermometer  go  to  zero  if  it  will ;  so  much  the  better,  if 
thereby  the  very  winds  are  frozen  and  unable  to  flap  their 
stiff  wings.  Sounds  of  bells  in  the  keen  air,  clear,  musical, 
heart-inspiring;  quick  tripping  of  fair  moccasoned  feet  on 
glittering  ice-pavements ;  bright  eyes  glancing  above  the 
uplifted  muff  like  a  sultana's  behind  the  folds  of  her  yash- 
mack\  school-boys  coasting  down  street  like  mad  Green- 
landers;  the  cold  brilliance  of  oblique  sunbeams  flashing 
back  from  wide  surfaces  of  glittering  snow  or  blazing  upon 
ice-jewelry  of  tree  and  roof.  There  is  nothing  in  all  this  to 
complain  of.  A  storm  of  summer  has  its  redeeming  sublim- 
ities, —  its  slow,  upheaving  mountains  of  cloud  glooming  in 
the  western  horizon  like  new-created  volcanoes,  veined  with 
fire,  shattered  by  exploding  thunders.  •  Even  the  wild  gales 
of  the  equinox  have  their  varieties,  —  sounds  of  wind-shaken 
woods,  and  waters,  creak  and  clatter  of  sign  and  casement, 

1  A 


2  JOHN    G.  WHITTIER. 

hurricane  puffs  and  down-rushing  rain-spouts.  But  this 
dull,  dark  autumn  day  of  thaw  and  rain,  when  the  very 
clouds. seom  too  spiritless  and  languid  to  storm  outright  or 
take  themselves  out  of  the  way  of  fair  weather;  wet  beneath 
and  above,  reminding  one  of  that  ray  less  atmosphere  of 
Dante's  Thiid  Circle,  where  the  infernal  Priessnitz  admin- 
isters his  hydropathic  torment,  — 

"  A  heavy,  cursed,  and  relentless  drench,  — 
The  land  it  soaks  is  putrid  "  ;  — 

or  rather,  as  everything,  animate  and  inanimate,  is  seething 
in  warm  mist,  suggesting  the  idea  that  Nature,  grown  old 
and  rheumatic,  is  trying  the  efficacy  of  a  Thompsonian 
sieam-box  on  a  grand  scale ;  no  sounds  save  the  heavy  plash 
of  muddy  feet  on  the  pavements  ;  the  monotonous,  melan- 
choly drip  from  trees  and  roofs ;  the  distressful  gurgling  of 
water-ducts,  swallowing  the  dirty  amalgam  of  the  gutters  ;  a 
dim,  leaden-colored  horizon  of  only  a  few  yards  in  diameter, 
shutting  down  about  one,  beyond  which  nothing  is  visible 
save  in  faint  line  or  dark  projection ;  the  ghost  of  a  church 
spire  or  the  eidolon  of  a  chimney-pot.  He  who  can  extract 
pleasurable  emotions  from  the  alembic  of  such  a  day  has  a 
trick  of  alchemy  with  which  I  am  wholly  unacquainted. 

Hark !  a  rap  at  my  door.  Welcome  anybody  just  now. 
One  gains  nothing  by  attempting  to  shut  out  the  sprites  of 
the  weather.  They  come  in  at  the  keyhole ;  they  peer 
through  the  dripping  panes ;  they  insinuate  themselves 
through  the  crevices  of  the  casement,  or  plump  down  chim- 
ney astride  of  the  rain-drops. 

I  rise  and  throw  open  the  door.  A  tall,  shambling,  loose- 
jointed  figure ;  a  pinched,  shrewd  face,  sunbrown  and  wind- 
dried  ;  small,  quick-winking  black  eyes.  There  he  stands, 
the  water  dripping  from  his  pulpy  hat  and  ragged  elbows. 

I  speak  to  him ;  but  he  returns  no  answer.  With  a 
dumb  show  of  misery  quite  touching  he  hands  me  a  soiled 


YANKEE  GYPSIES.  S 

piece  of  parchment,  whereon  I  read  what  purports  to  be  a 
melancholy  account  of  shipwreck  and  disaster,  to  the  par- 
ticular detriment,  loss,  and  damnification  of  one  Pietro 
Frugoni,  who  is,  in  consequence,  sorely  in  want  of  the  alms 
of  all  charitable  Christian  persons,  and  who  is,  in  short,  the 
bearer  of  this  veracious  document,  duly  certified  and  in- 
dorsed by  an  Italian  consul  in  one  of  our  Atlantic  cities,  of  a 
high-sounding,  but  to  Yankee  organs  unpronounceable,  name. 

Here  commences  a  struggle.  Every  man,  the  Mahome- 
tans tell  us,  has  two  attendant  angels,  —  the  good  one  on  his 
right  shoulder,  the  bad  on  his  left.  "  Give,"  says  Benevo- 
lence, as  with  some  difficulty  I  fish  up  a  small  coin  from  the 
depths  of  my  pocket.  "  Not  a  cent,"  says  selfish  Prudence  ; 
and  I  drop  it  from  my  fingers.  "  Think,"  says  the  good  an- 
gel, "of  the  poor  stranger  in  a  strange  land,  just  escaped 
from  the  terrors  of  the  sea  storm,  in  which  his  little  prop- 
erty has  perished,  thrown  half  naked  and  helpless  on  our 
shores,  ignorant  of  our  language,  and  unable  to  find  employ- 
ment suited  to  his  capacity."  "  A  vile  impostor  !  "  replies 
the  left-hand  sentinel.  "  His  paper,  purchased  from  one  of 
those  ready  writers  in  New  York  who  manufacture  beggar 
credentials  at  the  low  price  of  one  dollar  per  copy,  with 
earthquakes,  fires,  or  shipwrecks,  to  suit  customers." 

Amidst  this  confusion  of  tongues  I  take  another  survey 
of  my  visitant.  Ha !  a  light  dawns  upon  me.  That 
shrewd,  old  face,  with  its  sharp,  winking  eyes,  is  no  stran- 
ger to  me.  Pietro  Frugoni,  I  have  seen  thee  before.  Si, 
signor,  that  face  of  thine  has  looked  at  me  over  a  dirty  white 
neckcloth,  with  the  corners  of  that  cunning  mouth  drawn 
downwards,  and  those  small  eyes  turned  up  in  sanctimonious 
gravity,  while  thou  wast  offering  to  a  crowd  of  half-grown 
boys  an  extemporaneous  exhortation  in  the  capacity  of  a 
travelling  preacher.  Have  I  not  seen  it  peering  out  from 
under  a  blanket,  as  that  of  a  poor  Penobscot  Indian  who  had 
lost  the  use  of  his  hands  while  trapping  on  the  Madawaska  ? 


4  JOHN    G.  WHITTIER. 

Is  it  not  the  face  of  the  forlorn  father  of  six  small  childrer, 
whom  the  "  marcury  doctors  "  had  "  pisened  "  and  crippled  ? 
Did  it  not  belong  to  that  down-east  unfortunate  who  had 
been  out  to  the  "  Genesee  country "  and  got  the  "  fevern- 
nager,"  and  whose  hand  shook  so  pitifully  when  held  out  to 
receive  my  poor  gift  ?  The  same,  under  all  disguises  — 
Stephen  Leathers,  of  Barrington  —  him,  and  none  other! 
Let  me  conjure  him  into  his  own  likeness:  — 

"  Well,  Stephen,  what  news  from  old  Barrington  ?  " 

"  O,  well  I  thought  I  knew  ye,"  he  answers,  not  the  least 
disconcerted.  "  How  do  you  do  ?  and  how 's  your  folks  ? 
All  well,  I  hope.  I  took  this  'ere  paper  you  see,  to  help  a 
poor  furriner,  who  could  n't  make  himself  understood  any 
more  than  a  wild  goose.  I  thought  I  'd  just  start  him  for- 
'ard  a  little.  It  seemed  a  marcy  to  do  it." 

Well  and  shiftily  answered,  thou  ragged  Proteus.  One 
cannot  be  angry  with  such  a  fellow.  I  will  just  inquire  into 
the  present  state  of  his  Gospel  mission  and  about  the  condi- 
tion of  his  tribe  on  the  Penobscot ;  and  it  may  be  not  amiss 
to  congratulate  him  on  the  success  of  the  steam  doctors  in 
sweating  the  "pisen"  of  the  regular  faculty  out  of  him. 
But  he  evidently  has  no  wish  to  enter  into  idle  conversation. 
Intent  upon  his  benevolent  errand,  he  is  already  clattering 
down  stairs.  Involuntarily  I  glance  out  of  the  window  just 
in  season  to  catch  a  single  glimpse  of  him  ere  he  is  swal- 
lowed up  in  the  mist. 

He  has  gone ;  and,  knave  as  he  is,  I  can  hardly  help  ex- 
claiming, "Luck  go  with  him!"  He  has  broken  in  upon 
the  sombre  train  of  my  thoughts  and  called  up  before  me 
pleasant  and  grateful  recollections.  The  old  farm-house 
nestling  in  its  valley ;  hills  stretching  off  to  the  south  and 
green  meadows  to  the  east ;  the  small  stream  which  came 
noisily  down  its  ravine,  washing  the  old  garden  wall  and 
softly  lapping  on  fallen  stones  and  mossy  roots  of  beeches 
and  hemlocks ;  the  tall  sentinel  poplars  at  the  gateway ;  the 


YANKEE  GYPSIES.  5 

oak  forest,  sleeping  unbroken  to  the  northern  horizon ;  the 
grass-grown  carriage-path,  with  its  rude  and  crazy  bridge,  — 
the  dear  old  landscape  of  my  boyhood  lies  outstretched  be- 
fore me  like  a  daguerrotype  from  that  picture  within  which 
I  have  borne  with  me  in  all  my  wanderings.  I  am  a  boy 
again,  once  more  conscious  of  the  feeling,  half  terror,  half 
exultation,  with  which  I  used  to  announce  the  approach  of 
this  very  vagabond  and  his  "  kindred  after  the  flesh." 

The  advent  of  wandering  beggars,  or,  "  old  stragglers,"  as 
we  were  wont  to  call  them,  was  an  event  of  no  ordinary  in- 
terest in  the  generally  monotonous  quietude  of  our  farm  life. 
Many  of  them  were  well  known ;  they  had  their  periodical 
revolutions  and  transits  ;  we  could  calculate  them  like  eclipses 
or  new  moons.  Some  were  sturdy  knaves,  fat  and  saucy ; 
and,  whenever  they  ascertained  that  the  "  men  folks  "  were 
absent,  would  order  provisions  and  cider  like  men  who 
expected  to  pay  for  it,  seating  themselves  at  the  hearth  or 
table  with  the  air  of  Falstaff,  —  "  Shall  I  not  take  mine  ease 
in  mine  own  inn  ?  "  Others,  poor,  pale,  patient,  like  Sterne's 
monk,  came  creeping  up  to  the  door,  hat  in  hand,  standing 
there  in  their  gray  wretchedness  with  a  look  of  heartbreak 
and  forlornness  which  was  never  without  its  effect  on  our 
juvenile  sensibilities.  At  times,  however,  we  experienced  a 
slight  revulsion  of  feeling  when  even  these  humblest  chil- 
dren of  sorrow  somewhat  petulantly  rejected  our  proffered 
bread  and  cheese,  and  demanded  instead  a  glass  of  cider. 
"Whatever  the  temperance  society  might  in  such  cases  have 
done,  it  was  not  in  our  hearts  to  refuse  the  poor  creatures  a 
draught  of  their  favorite  beverage ;  and  was  n't  it  a  satisfac- 
tion to  see  their  sad,  melancholy  faces  light  up  as  we  handed 
them  the  full  pitcher,  and,  on  receiving  it  back  empty  from 
their  brown,  wrinkled  hands,  to  hear  them,  half  breathless 
from  their  long,  delicious  draught,  thanking  us  for  the  favor, 
as  "  dear,  good  children  "  1  Not  unfrequently  these  wander- 
ing tests  of  our  benevolence  made  their  appearance  in  inter- 


6  JOHN    G.  WHITTIER. 

esting  groups  of  man,  woman,  and  child,  picturesque  in  their 
squalidness,  and  manifesting  a  maudlin  affection  which  would 
have  done  honor  to  the  revellers  at  Poosie-Nansie's,  immor- 
tal in  the  cantata  of  Burns.  I  remember  some  who  were 
evidently  the  victims  of  monomania  —  haunted  and  hunted 
by  some  dark  thought  —  possessed  by  a  fixed  idea.  One,  a 
black-eyed,  wild-haired  woman,  with  a  whole  tragedy  of  sin, 
shame,  and  suffering  written  in  her  countenance,  used  often 
to  visit  us,  warm  herself  by  our  winter  fire,  and  supply  her- 
self with  a  stock  of  cakes  and  cold  meat ;  but  was  never 
known  to  answer  a  question  or  to  ask  one.  She  never 
smiled ;  the  cold,  stony  look  of  her  eye  never  changed ;  a  si- 
lent, impassive  face,  frozen  rigid  by  some  great  wrong  or  sin. 
We  used  to  look  with  awe  upon  the  "still  woman,"  and 
think  of  the  demoniac  of  Scripture  who  had  a  "  dumb  spirit." 
One  —  I  think  I  see  him  now,  grim,  gaunt,  and  ghastly, 
working  his  slow  way  up  to  our  door  —  used  to  gather  herbs 
by  the  wayside  and  call  himself  doctor.  He  was  bearded 
like  a  he-goat  and  used  to  counterfeit  lameness,  yet,  when  he 
supposed  himself  alone,  would  travel  on  lustily  as  if  walking 
for  a  wager.  At  length,  as  if  in  punishment  of  his  deceit, 
he  met  with  an  accident  in  his  rambles  and  became  lame  in 
earnest,  hobbling  ever  after  with  difficulty  on  his  gnarled 
crutches.  Another  used  to  go  stooping,  like  Bunyan's  pil- 
grim, under  a  pack  made  of  an  old  bed  sacking,  stuffed  out 
into  most  plethoric  dimensions,  tottering  on  a  pair  of  email, 
meagre  legs,  and  peering  out  with  his  wild,  hairy  face  from 
under  his  burden  like  a  big-bodied  spider.  That  "  man  with 
the  pack"  always  inspired  me  with  awe  and  reverence. 
Huge,  almost  .suUime,  in  its  tense  rotundity,  the  father  of 
all  packs,  never  laid  aside  and  never  opened,  what  might 
there  not  be  within  it  ?  With  what  flesh-creeping  curiosity 
I  used  to  walk  round  about  it  at  a  safe  distance,  half  expect- 
ing to  see  its  striped  covering  stirred  by  the  motions  of  a 
mysterious  life,  or  that  some  evil  monster  would  leap  out  of 


YANKEE    GYPSIES.  7 

it,  like  robbers  from  All  Baba's  jars  or  armed  men  from  the 
Trojan  horse ! 

There  was  another  class  of  peripatetic  philosophers  — 
half  peddler,  half  mendicant  —  who  were  in  the  habit  of 
visiting  us.  One  we  recollect,  a  lame,  unshaven,  sinister- 
eyed,  unwholesome  fellow,  with  his  basket  of  old  news- 
papers and  pamphlets,  and  his  tattered  blue  umbrella,  serv- 
ing rather  as  a  walking-staff  than  as  a  protection  from  the 
rain.  He  told  us  on  one  occasion,  in  answer  to  our  inquir- 
ing into  the  cause  of  his  lameness,  that  when  a  young  man 
he  was  employed  on  the  farm  of  the  chief  magistrate  of  a 
neighboring  State  ;  where,  as  his  ill  luck  would  have  it,  the 
governor's  handsome  daughter  fell  in  love  with  him.  He 
was  caught  one  day  in  the  young  lady's  room  by  her  father ; 
whereupon  the  irascible  old  gentleman  pitched  him  uncere- 
moniously out  of  the  window,  laming  him  for  life,  on  the 
brick  pavement  below,  like  Vulcan  on  the  rocks  of  Lemnos. 
As  for  the  lady,  he  assured  us  "  she  took  on  dreadfully  about 
it."  "Did  she  die?"  we  inquired  anxiously.  There  was  a 
cunning  twinkle  in  the  old  rogue's  eye  as  he  responded, 
"  Well,  no,  she  did  n't.  She  got  married." 

Twice  a  year,  usually  hi  the  spring  and  autumn,  we  were 
honored  with  a  call  from  Jonathan  Plummer,  maker  of 
verses,  pecller  and  poet,  physician  and  parson,  —  a  Yankee 
troubadour,  —  first  and  last  minstrel  of  the  valley  of  the 
Merrimac,  encircled,  to  my  wondering  young  eyes,  with  the 
very  nimbus  of  immortality.  He  brought  with  him  phis, 
needles,  tape,  and  cotton  thread  for  my  mother;  jackknives, 
razors,  and  soap  for  my  father ;  and  verses  of  his  own  com- 
posing, coarsely  printed  and  illustrated  with  rude  woodcuts, 
for  the  delectation  of  the  younger  branches  of  the  family. 
No  lovesick  youth  could  drown  himself,  no  deserted  maiden 
bewail  the  moon,  no  rogue  mount  the  gallows  without  fitting 
memorial  in  Pluinmer's  verses.  Earthquakes,  fires,  fevers, 
and  shipwrecks  he  regarded  as  personal  favors  from  Provi- 


8  JOHN    G.  WHITTIEB. 

dence,  furnishing  the  raw  material  of  song  and  ballad. 
Welcome  to  us  in  our  country  seclusion  as  Autolycus  to  the 
clown  in  Winter's  Tale,  we  listened  with  infinite  satisfaction 
to  his  readings  of  his  own  verses,  or  to  his  ready  improvisa- 
tion upon  some  domestic  incident  or  topic  suggested  by  his 
auditors.  When  once  fairly  over  the  difficulties  at  the  out- 
set of  a  new  subject  his  rhymes  flowed  freely,  "  as  if  he  had 
eaten  ballads  and  all  men's  ears  grew  to  his  tunes."  His 
productions  answered,  as  nearly  as  I  can  remember,  to 
Shakespeare's  description  of  a  proper  ballad  —  "doleful 
matter  merrily  set  down,  or  a  very  pleasant  theme  sung 
lamentably."  He  was  scrupulously  conscientious,  devout, 
inclined  to  theological  disquisitions,  and  withal  mighty  in 
Scripture.  He  was  thoroughly  independent ;  flattered  no- 
body, cared  for  nobody,  trusted  nobody.  When  invited  to 
sit  down  at  our  dinner-table,  he  invariably  took  the  precau- 
tion to  place  his  basket  of  valuables  between  his  legs  for 
safe  keeping.  "Never  mind  thy  basket,  Jonathan,"  said 
my  father ;  "  we  sha'  n't  steal  thy  verses."  "  I  'm  not  sure 
of  that,"  returned  the  suspicious  guest.  "  It  is  written, 
4  Trust  ye  not  in  any  brother.'  " 

Thou  too,  O  Parson  B.,  —  with  thy  pale  student's  brow 
and  rubicund  nose,  with  thy  rusty  and  tattered  black  coat 
overswept  by  white,  flowing  locks,  with  thy  professional 
white  neckcloth  scrupulously  preserved  when  even  a  shirt 
to  thy  back  was  problematical,  —  art  by  no  means  to  be 
ove  rlooked  in  the  muster-roll  of  vagrant  gentlemen  possess- 
ing the  entree  of  our  farm-house.  Well  do  we  remember 
with  what  grave  and  dignified  courtesy  he  used  to  step  over 
its  threshold,  saluting  its  inmates  with  the  same  air  of  gra- 
cious condescension  and  patronage  with  which  in  better 
days  he  had  delighted  the  hearts  of  his  parishioners.  Poor 
old  man !  He  had  once  been  the  admired  and  almost  wor- 
shipped minister  of  the  largest  church  in  the  town  where 
he  afterwards  found  support  in  the  winter  season  as  a  pau- 


YANKEE   GYPSIES.  9 

per  He  had  early  fallen  into  intemperate  habits ;  and  at 
the  age  of  threescore  and  ten,  when  I  remember  him,  he 
was  only  sober  when  he  lacked  the  means  of  being  other- 
wise. Drunk  or  sober,  however,  he  never  altogether  forgot 
the  proprieties  of  his  profession ;  he  was  always  grave, 
decorous,  and  gentlemanly ;  he  held  fast  the  form  of  sound 
words,  and  the  weakness  of  the  flesh  abated  nothing  of  the 
rigor  of  his  stringent  theology.  He  had  been  a  favorite 
pupil  of  the  learned  and  astute  Emmons,  and  was  to  the 
last  a  sturdy  defender  of  the  peculiar  dogmas  of  his  school. 
The  last  time  we  saw  him  he  was  holding  a  meeting  in  our 
district  school-house,  with  a  vagabond  pedler  for  deacon 
and  travelling  companion.  The  tie  which  united  the  ill- 
assorted  couple  was  doubtless  the  same  which  endeared 
Tarn  O'Shanter  to  the  souter :  — 

"  They  had  been  fou  for  weeks  thegither." 

He  took  for  his  text  the  first  seven  verses  of  the  concluding 
chapter  of  Ecclesiastes,  furnishing  in  himself  its  fitting 
illustration.  The  evil  days  had  come ;  the  keepers  of  the 
house  trembled;  the  windows  of  life  were  darkened.  A 
few  months  later  the  silver  cord  was  loosened,  the  golden 
bowl  was  broken,  and  between  the  poor  old  man  and  the 
temptations  which  beset  him  fell  the  thick  curtains  of  the 
grave. 

One  day  we  had  a  call  from  a  "  pawky  auld  carle  "  of  a 
wandering  Scotchman.  To  him  I  owe  my  first  introduction 
to  the  songs  of  Burns.  After  eating  his  bread  and  cheese 
and  drinking  his  mug  of  cider  he  gave  us  Bonnie  Doou, 
Highland  Mary,  and  Auld  Lang  Syne.  He  had  a  ri  sh,  full 
voice,  and  entered  heartily  into  the  spirit  of  his  lyrics.  I 
have  since  listened  to  the  same  melodies  from  the  lips  of 
Dempster  (than  whom  the  Scottish  bard  has  had  no 
sweeter  or  truer  interpreter) ;  but  the  skilful  performance 
of  the  artist  lacked  the  novel  charm  of  the  gaberlunzie's 
1* 


10  JOHN    G.  WHITTIER. 

singing  in  the  old  farm-house  kitchen.  Another  wanderer 
made  us  acquainted  with  the  humorous  old  ballad  of  "  Our 
gude  man  cam  hame  at  e'en."  He  applied  for  supper  and 
lodging,  and  the  next  morning  was  set  at  work  splitting 
stones  in  the  pasture.  While  thus  engaged  the  village 
doctor  came  riding  along  the  highway  on  his  fine,  spirited 
horse,  and  stopped  to  talk  with  my  father.  The  fellow 
eyed  the  animal  attentively,  as  if  familiar  with  all  his  good 
points,  and  hummed  over  a  stanza  of  the  old  poem :  — 

"  Our  gude  man  cam  hame  at  e'en, 

And  hame  cam  he ; 
And  there  he  saw  a  saddle  horse 

Where  nae  horse  should  be. 
« How  cam  this  horse  here  * 

How  can  it  be  ? 
How  cam  this  horse  here 

Without  the  leave  of  me  * ' 
'  A  horse  ?  '  quo  she. 
'  Ay,  a  horse/  quo  he. 
1  Ye  auld  fool,  ye  blind  fool,  — 

And  blinder  might  ye  be,  — 
'T  is  naething  but  a  milking  cow 

My  mamma  sent  to  me.' 
A  milch  cow  ?  '  quo  he. 
Ay,  a  milch  cow/  quo  she. 
Weel,  far  hae  I  ridden, 

And  muckle  hae  I  seen  ; 
But  milking  cows  wi'  saddles  on 

Saw  I  never  nane.' " 

That  very  night  the  rascal  decamped,  taking  with  him 
the  doctor's  horse,  and  was  never  after  heard  of. 

Often,  in  the  gray  of  the  morning,  we  used  to  see  one  or 
more  "  gaberluuzie  men,"  pack  on  shoulder  and  staff  in 
hand,  emerging  from  the  barn  or  other  out-building  where 
they  had  passed  the  night.  I  was  once  sent  to  the  bam  to 
fodder  the  cattle  late  in  the  evening,  and,  climbing  into  the 


YANKEE    GYPSIES.  11 

mow  to  pitch  down  hay  for  that  purpose,  I  was  startled  by 
the  sudden  apparition  of  a  man  rising  up  before  me,  just 
discernible  in  the  dim  moonlight  streaming  through  the 
seams  of  the  boards.  I  made  a  rapid  retreat  down  the  lad- 
der ;  and  was  only  reassured  by  hearing  the  object  of  my 
terror  calling  after  me,  and  recognizing  his  voice  as  that  of 
a  harmless  old  pilgrim  whom  I  had  known  before.  Our 
farm-house  was  situated  in  a  lonely  valley,  half  surrounded 
with  woods,  with  no  neighbors  in  sight.  One  dark,  cloudy 
night,  when  our  parents  chanced  to  be  absent,  we  were  sit- 
ting with  our  aged  grandmother  in  the  fading  light  of  the 
kitchen  fire,  working  ourselves  into  a  very  satisfactory  state 
of  excitement  and  terror  by  recounting  to  each  other  all  the 
dismal  stories  we  could  remember  of  ghosts,  witches, 
haunted  houses,  and  robbers,  when  we  were  suddenly  start- 
led by  a  loud  rap  at  the  door.  A  stripling  of  fourteen,  I 
was  very  naturally  regarded  as  the  head  of  the  household ; 
so,  with  many  misgivings,  I  advanced  to  the  door,  which  I 
slowly  opened,  holding  the  candle  tremulously  above  my 
head  and  peering  out  into  the  darkness.  The  feeble  glim- 
mer played  upon  the  apparition  of  a  gigantic  horseman, 
mounted  on  a  steed  of  a  size  worthy  of  such  a  rider  — 
colossal,  motionless,  like  images  cut  out  of  the  solid  night. 
The  strange  visitant  gruffly  saluted  me ;  and,  after  making 
several  ineffectual  efforts  to  urge  his  horse  in  at  the  door, 
dismounted  and  followed  me  into  the  room,  evidently  enjoy- 
ing the  terror  which  his  huge  presence  excited.  Announc- 
ing himself  a~  the  great  Indian  doctor,  he  drew  himself  up 
before  the  fire,  stretched  his  arms,  clinched  his  fists,  struck 
his  broad  chest,  and  invited  our  attention  to  what  he  called 
his  "  mortal  frame."  He  demanded  in  succession  all  kinds 
of  intoxicating  liquors ;  and,  on  being  assured  that  we  had 
none  to  give  him,  he  grew  angry,  threatened  to  swallow  my 
younger  brother  alive,  and,  seizing  me  by  the  hair  of  my 
head  as  the  angel  did  the  prophet  at  Babylon,  led  me  about 


12  JOHN    G.   WHITTIER. 

from  room  to  room.  After  an  ineffectual  search,  in  the 
course  of  which  he  mistook  a  jug  of  oil  for  one  of  brandy, 
and,  contrary  to  my  explanations  and  remonstrances,  insisted 
upon  swallowing  a  portion  of  its  contents,  he  released  me, 
fell  to  crying  and  sobbing,  and  confessed  that  he  was  so  drunk 
already  that  his  horse  was  ashamed  of  him.  After  bemoan- 
ing and  pitying  himself  to  his  satisfaction  he  wiped  his  ejes, 
and  sat  down  by  the  side  of  my  grandmother,  giving  her  to 
understand  that  he  was  very  much  pleased  with  her  appear- 
ance ;  adding,  that,  if  agreeable  to  her,  he  should  like  the 
privilege  of  paying  his  addresses  to  her.  While  vainly 
endeavoring  to  make  the  excellent  old  lady  comprehend  his 
very  flattering  proposition  he  was  interrupted  by  the  return 
of  my  father,  who,  at  once  understanding  the  matter,  turned 
him  out  of  doors  without  ceremony. 

On  one  occasion,  a  few  years  ago,  on  my  return  from  the 
field  at  evening,  I  was  told  that  a  foreigner  had  asked  for 
lodgings  during  the  night,  but  that,  influenced  by  his  dark, 
repulsive  appearance,  my  mother  had  very  reluctantly  re- 
fused his  request.  I  found  her  by  no  means  satisfied  with 
her  decision.  "  What  if  a  son  of  mine  was  in  a  strange 
land  ?  "  she  inquired,  self-reproachfully.  Greatly  to  her  re- 
lief, I  volunteered  to  go  in  pursuit  of  the  wanderer,  and, 
taking  a  crosspath  over  the  fields,  soon  overtook  him.  He 
had  just  been  rejected  at  the  house  of  our  nearest  neighbor, 
and  was  standing  in  a  state  of  dubious  perplexity  in  the 
street.  His  looks  quite  justified  my  mother's  suspicions. 
He  was  an  olive-complexioned,  black-bearded  Italian,  with 
an  eye  like  a  live  coal,  such  a  face  as  perchance  looks  out 
on  the  traveller  in  the  passes  of  the  Abruzzi,  —  one  of  those 
bandit  visages  which  Salvator  has  painted.  With  some  dif- 
ficulty I  gave  him  to  understand  my  errand,  when  he  over- 
whelmed me  with  thanks  and  joyfully  followed  me  back. 
He  took  his  seat  with  us  at  the  supper-table ;  and,  when  we 
were  all  gathered  around  the  hearth  that  cold  autumnal 


YANKEE    GYPSIES.  13 

evening,  he  told  us,  partly  by  words  and  partly  by  gestures, 
the  story  of  his  life  and  misfortunes,  amused  us  with  descrip- 
tions of  the  grape-gatherings  and  festivals  of  his  sunny  clime, 
edified  my  mother  with  a  recipe  for  making  bread  of  chest- 
nuts ;  and  in  the  morning,  when,  after  breakfast,  his  dark, 
sullen  face  lighted  up  and  his  fierce  eye  moistened  with 
grateful  emotion  as  in  his  own  silvery  Tuscan  accent  he 
poured  out  his  thanks,  we  marvelled  at  the  fears  which  had 
so  nearly  closed  our  door  against  him ;  and,  as  he  departed, 
we  all  felt  that  he  had  left  with  us  the  blessing  of  the  poor. 

It  was  not  often  that,  as  in  the  above  instance,  my  moth- 
er's prudence  got  the  better  of  her  charity.  The  regular 
"  old  stragglers "  regarded  her  as  an  unfailing  friend ;  and 
the  sight  of  her  plain  cap  was  to  them  an  assurance  of  forth- 
coming creature  comforts.  There  was  indeed  a  tribe  of  lazy 
strollers,  having  their  place  of  rendezvous  in  the  town  of 
Barringtou,  New  Hampshire,  whose  low  vices  had  placed 
them  beyond  even  the  pale  of  her  benevolence.  They  were 
not  unconscious  of  their  evil  reputation  ;  and  experience  had 
taught  them  the  necessity  of  concealing,  under  well-contrived 
disguises,  their  true  character.  They  came  to  us  in  all 
shapes  and  with  all  appearances  save  the  true  one,  with 
most  miserable  stories  of  mishap  and  sickness  and  all  "the 
ills  which  flesh  is  heir  to."  It  was  particularly  vexatious 
to  discover,  when  too  late,  that  our  sympathies  and  chari- 
ties had  been  expended  upon  such  graceless  vagabonds  as 
the  "  Barrington  beggars."  An  old  withered  hag,  known  by 
the  appellation  of  Hopping  Pat,  —  the  wise  woman  of  her 
tribe,  —  was  in  the  habit  of  visiting  us,  with  her  hopeful 
grandson,  who  had  "a  gift  for  preaching"  as  well  as  for 
many  other  things  not  exactly  compatible  with  holy  orders. 
He  sometimes  brought  with  him  a  tame  crow,  a  shrewd, 
knavish-looking  bird,  who,  when  in  the  humor  for  it,  could 
talk  like  Barnaby  Rudge's  raven.  He  used  to  say  he  could 
"do  nothin'  at  exhortin'  without  a  white  handkercher  on  hig 


14  JOHN    G.   WHITTIER. 

neck  and  money  in  his  pocket "  —  a  fact  going  far  to  confirm 
the  opinions  of  the  Bishop  of  Exeter  and  the  Puseyites  gen- 
erally, that  there  can  be  no  priest  without  tithes  and  surplice. 

These  people  have  for  several  generations  lived  distinct 
from  the  great  mass  of  the  community,  like  the  gypsies  of 
Europe,  whom  in  many  respects  they  closely  resemble. 
They  have  the  same  settled  aversion  to  labor  and  the  same 
disposition  to  avail  themselves  of  the  fruits  of  the  industry 
of  others.  •  They  love  a  wild,  out-of-door  life,  sing  songs, 
tell  fortunes,  and  have  an  instinctive  hatred  of  "  missionaries 
and  cold  water."  It  has  been  said  —  I  know  not  upon  what 
grounds  —  that  their  ancestors  were  indeed  a  veritable  im- 
portation of  English  gypsyhood ;  but  if  so,  they  have  un- 
doubtedly lost  a  good  deal  of  the  picturesque  charm  of  its 
unhoused  and  free  condition.  I  very  much  fear  that  my 
friend  Mary  Russell  Mitford,  —  sweetest  of  England's  rural 
painters,  —  who  has  a  poet's  eye  for  the  fine  points  in 
gypsy  character,  would  scarcely  allow  their  claims  to  frater- 
nity with  her  own  vagrant  friends,  whose  camp-fires  wel- 
comed her  to  her  new  home  at  Swallowfield. 

"  The  proper  study  of  mankind  is  man  " ;  and,  according 
to  my  view,  no  phase  of  our  common  humanity  is  altogether 
unworthy  of  investigation.  Acting  upon  this  belief  two  or 
three  summers  ago,  when  making,  in  company  with  my  sis- 
ter, a  little  excursion  into  the  hill  country  of  New  Hamp- 
shire, I  turned  my  horse's  head  towards  Barrington  for  the 
purpose  of  seeing  these  semi-civilized  strollers  in  their  own 
home,  and  returning,  once  for  all,  their  numerous  visits. 
Taking  leave  of  our  hospitable  cousins  in  old  Lee  with 
about  as  much  solemnity  as  we  may  suppose  Major  Laing 
parted  with  his  friends  when  he  set  out  in  search  of  desert- 
girdled  Timbuctoo,  we  drove  several  miles  over  a  rough 
road,  passed  the  Devil's  Den  unmolested,  crossed  a  fretful 
little  streamlet  noisily  working  its  way  into  a  valley  where 
it  turned  a  lonely,  half-ruinous  mill,  and  climbing  a  steep 


YANKEE   GYPSIES.  15 

hill  beyond,  saw  before  us  a  wide  sandy  level,  skirted  on  the 
west  and  north  by  low,  scraggy  hills,  and  dotted  here  and 
there  with  dwarf  pitch  pines.  In  the  centre  of  this  desolate 
region  were  some  twenty  or  thirty  small  dwellings,  grouped 
together  as  irregularly  as  a  Hottentot  kraal.  Unfenced, 
unguarded,  open  to  all  comers  and  goers,  stood  that  city  of 
the  beggars  —  no  wall  or  paling  between  the  ragged  cabins 
to  remind  one  of  the  jealous  distinctions  of  property.  The 
great  idea  of  its  founders  seemed  visible  in  its  unappropri- 
ated freedom.  Was  not  the  whole  round  world  their  own  ? 
and  should  they  haggle  about  boundaries  and  title  deeds  ? 
For  them,  on  distant  plains,  ripened  golden  harvests;  for 
them,  in  far-off  workshops,  busy  hands  were  toiling ;  for 
them,  if  they  had  but  the  grace  to  note  it,  the  broad  earth 
put  on  her  garniture  of  beauty,  and  over  them  hung  the 
silent  mystery  of  heaven  and  its  stars.  That  comfortable 
philosophy  which  modern  transcendentalism  has  but  dimly 
shadowed  forth  —  that  poetic  agrarianism,  which  gives  all 
to  each  and  each  to  all  —  is  the  real  life  of  this  city  of  un- 
work.  To  each  of  its  dingy  dwellers  might  be  not  unaptly 
applied  the  language  of  one  who,  I  trust,  will  pardon  me  for 
quoting  her  beautiful  poem  in  this  connection :  — 

"  Other  hands  may  grasp  the  field  or  forest, 
Proud  proprietors  in  pomp  may  shine ; 
Thou  art  wealthier  —  all  the  world  is  thine.'' 

But  look !  the  clouds  are  breaking.  "  Fair  weather  com- 
eth  out  of  the  north."  The  wind  has  blown  away  the  mists ; 
on  the  gilded  spire  of  John  Street  glimmers  a  beam  of  sun- 
shine ;  and  there  is  the  sky  again,  hard,  blue,  and  cold  in  its 
eternal  purity,  not  a  whit  the  worse  for  the  storm.  In  the 
beautiful  present  the  past  is  no  longer  needed.  Reverently 
and  gratefully  let  its  volume  be  laid  aside ;  and  when  again 
the  shadows  of  the  outward  world  fall  upon  the  spirit,  may 
I  not  lack  a  good  angel  to  remind  me  of  its  solace,  even  if 
he  comes  in  the  shape  of  a  Barrington  beggar. 


D  A  R  A. 

BY  JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL 

WHEN  Persia's  sceptre  trembled  in  a  hand 
Wilted  with  harem-heats,  and  all  the  land 
Was  hovered  over  by  those  vulture  ills 
That  snuff  decaying  empire  from  afar, 
Then,  with  a  nature  balanced  as  a  star, 
Dara  arose,  a  shepherd  of  the  hills. 

He  who  had  governed  fleecy  subjects  well, 

Made  his  own  village  by  the  self-same  spell 

Secure  and  quiet  as  a  guarded  fold ; 

Then,  gathering  strength  by  slow  and  wise  degrees, 

Under  his  sway,  to  neighbor  villages 

Order  returned,  and  faith,  and  justice  old. 

Now  when  it  fortuned  that  a  king  more  wise 
Endued  the  realm  with  brain,  and  hands,  and  eyes, 
He  sought  on  every  side  men  brave  and  just ; 
And  having  heard  our  mountain  shepherd's  praise, 
How  he  refilled  the  mould  of  elder  days, 
To  Dara  gave  a  satrapy  in  trust. 

So  Dara  shepherded  a  province  wide, 

Nor  in  his  viceroy's  sceptre  took  more  pride 

Than  in  his  crook  before ;  but  envy  finds 


DARA.  17 

More  food  in  cities  than  on  mountains  bare ; 
And  the  frank  sun  of  spirits  clear  and  rare 
Breeds  poisonous  fogs  in  low  and  marish  minds. 

Soon  it  was  whispered  at  the  royal  ear 
That,  though  wise  Dara's  province,  year  by  year, 
Like  a  great  sponge,  sucked  wealth  and  plenty  up, 
Yet,  when  he  squeezed  it  at  the  king's  behest, 
Some  yellow  drops  more  rich  than  all  the  rest 
Went  to  the  filling  of  his  private  cup. 

For  proof,  they  said  that,  wheresoe'er  he  went, 
A  chest,  beneath  whose  weight  the  camel  bent, 
Went  with  him ;  and  no  mortal  eye  had  seen 
What  was  therein,  save  only  Dara's  own. 
But,  when  't  was  opened,  all  his  tent  was  known 
To  glow  and  lighten  with  heaped  jewels'  sheen. 

The  king  set  forth  for  Dara's  province  straight, 
Where,  as  was  fit,  outside  the  city's  gate, 
The  viceroy  met  him  with  a  stately  train, 
And  there,  with  archers  circled,  close  at  hand, 
A  camel  with  the  chest  was  seen  to  stand. 
The  king's  brow  reddened,  for  the  guilt  was  plain. 

"  Open  me  here,"  he  cried,  "  this  treasure  chest." 

'T  was  done,  and  only  a  worn  shepherd's  vest 

Was  found  within.     Some  blushed  and  hung  the  head ; 

Not  Dara ;  open  as  the  sky's  blue  roof 

He  stood,  and  "  O  my  lord,  behold  the  proof 

That  I  was  faithful  to  my  trust,"  he  said. 

"  To  govern  men,  lo,  all  the  spell  I  had ! 
My  soul  in  these  rude  vestments  ever  clad 
Still  to  the  unstained  past  kept  true  and  leal, 


18  JAMES  RUSSELL    LOWELL. 

Still  on  these  plains  could  breathe  her  mountain  air, 

And  fortune's  heaviest  gifts  serenely  bear, 

Which  bend  men  from  their  truth  and  make  them  reel. 

"  For  ruling  wisely  I  should  have  small  skill, 
Were  I  not  lord  of  simple  Dara  still : 
That  sceptre  kept,  I  could  not  lose  my  way." 
Strange  dew  in  royal  eyes  grew  round  and  bright, 
And  strained  the  throbbing  lids ;  before  't  was  night, 
Two  added  provinces  blest  Dara's  sway. 


CROMWELL. 

BY    THOMAS    CARLYLE. 

CROMWELL'S  BIRTHPLACE. 

HUNTINGDON  itself  lies  pleasantly  along  the  left 
bank  of  the  Ouse,  sloping  pleasantly  upwards  from 
Ouse  Bridge,  which  connects  it  with  the  old  village  of  God- 
manchester ;  the  Town  itself  consisting  mainly  of  one  fair 
street,  which  towards  the  north  end  of  it  opens  into  a  kind 
of  irregular  market-place,  and  then  contracting  again  soon 
terminates.  The  two  churches  of  All-Saints'  and  St.  John's, 
as  you  walk  up  northward  from  the  Bridge,  appear  success- 
ively on  your  left ;  the  church-yards  flanked  with  shops  or 
other  houses.  The  Ouse,  which  is  of  very  circular  course 
in  this  quarter,  winding  as  if  reluctant  to  enter  the  Fen- 
country,  —  says  one  topographer,  has  still  a  respectable 
drab-color  gathered  from  the  clays  of  Bedfordshire,  has 
not  yet  the  Stygian  black  which  in  a  few  miles  further  it 
assumes  for  good.  Huntingdon,  as  it  were,  looks  over  into 
the  Fens;  Godmanchester,  just  across  the  river,  already 
stands  on  black  bog.  The  country  to  the  East  is  all  Fen 
(mostly  unreclaimed  in  Oliver's  time,  and  still  of  a  very 
dropsical  character)  ;  to  the  West  it  is  hard  green  ground, 
agreeably  broken  into  little  heights,  duly  fringed  with  wood, 
and  bearing  marks  of  comfortable  long-continued  cultivation. 
Here,  on  the  edge  of  the  firm  green  land,  and  looking  ovei 
into  the  black  marshes  with  their  alder-trees  and  willow 
trees,  did  Oliver  Cromwell  pass  his  young  years. 


20  THOMAS  CARLYLE. 


COINCIDENCES. 

WHILE  Oliver  Cromwell  was  entering  himself  of  Sidney- 
Sussex  College,  William  Shakespeare  was  taking  his  fare- 
well of  this  world.  Oliver's  Father  had,  most  likely,  cr.me 
with  him ;  it  is  but  some  fifteen  miles  from  Huntingdon ; 
you  can  go  and  come  in  a  day.  Oliver's  Father  saw  Oliver 
write  in  the  Album  at  Cambridge :  at  Stratford,  Shake- 
speare's Ann  Hathaway  was  weeping  over  his  bed.  The 
first  world-great  thing  that  remains  of  English  History,  the 
Literature  of  Shakespeare,  was  ending;  the  second  world- 
great  thing  that  remains  of  English  History,  the  armed 
Appeal  of  Puritanism  to  the  Invisible  God  of  Heaven 
against  many  very  visible  Devils,  on  Earth  and  Elsewhere, 
•was,  so  to  speak,  beginning.  They  have  their  exits  and  their 
entrances.  And  one  People,  in  its  time,  plays  many  parts. 

Chevalier  Florian,  in  his  "  Life  of  Cervantes,"  has  re- 
marked that  Shakespeare's  death-day,  23d  April,  1616, 
was  likewise  that  of  Cervantes  at  Madrid.  "  Twenty-third 
of  April "  is,  sure  enough,  the  authentic  Spanish  date :  but 
Chevalier  Florian  has  omitted  to  notice  that  the  English 
twenty-third  is  of  Old  Style.  The  brave  Miguel  died  ten 
days  before  Shakespeare ;  and  already  lay  buried,  smoothed 
right  nobly  into  his  long  rest.  The  Historical  Student  can 
meditate  on  these  things. 


HIS    CONVERSION. 

IN  those  years  it  must  be  that  Dr.  Simcott,  Physician  in 
Huntingdon,  had  to  do  with  Oliver's  hypochondriac  mala- 
dies. He  told  Sir  Philip  Warwick,  unluckily  specifying  no 
date,  or  none  that  has  survived,  "  he  had  often  been  sent  for 


CROMWELL.  21 

at  midnight:"  Mr.  Cromwell  for  many  years  was  very 
"  splenetic  "  (spleen-struck),  often  thought  he  was  just  about 
to  die,  and  also  "  had  fancies  about  the  Town  Cross." 
Brief  intimation,  of  which  the  reflecting  reader  may  make  a 
great  deal.  Samuel  Johnson,  too,  had  hypochondrias;  all 
great  souls  are  apt  to  have,  —  and  to  be  in  thick  darkness 
generally,  till  the  eternal  ways  and  the  celestial  guiding- 
stars  disclose  themselves,  and  the  vague  Abyss  of  Life  knit 
itself  up  into  Firmaments  for  them.  Temptations  in  the 
wilderness,  Choices  of  Hercules,  and  the  like,  in  succinct  or 
loose  form,  are  appointed  for  every  man  that  will  assert  a 
soul  in  himself  and  be  a  man.  Let  Oliver  take  comfort  in 
his  dark  sorrows  and  melancholies.  The  quantity  of  sor- 
row he  has,  does  it  not  mean  withal  the  quantity  of  sym- 
pathy he  has,  the  quantity  of  faculty  and  victory  he  shall 
yet  have  ?  Our  sorrow  is  the  inverted  image  of  our  noble- 
ness. The  depth  of  our  despair  measures  what  capability 
and  height  of  claim  we  have  to  hope.  Black  smoke  as  of 
Tophet  filling  all  your  universe,  it  can  yet  by  true  heart- 
energy  become  flame,  and  brilliancy  of  Heaven.  Courage  ! 
It  is  therefore  in  these  years,  undated  by  History,  that  we 
must  place  Oliver's  clear  recognition  of  Calvinistic  Chris- 
tianity ;  what  he,  with  unspeakable  joy,  would  name  his  Con- 
version, —  his  deliverance  from  the  jaws  of  Eternal  Death. 
Certainly  a  grand  epoch  for  a  man :  properly  the  one 
epoch ;  the  turning-point  which  guides  upwards,  or  guides 
downwards,  him  and  his  activity  for  evermore.  Wilt  thou 
join  with  the  dragons ;  wilt  thou  join  with  the  Gods  ?  Of 
thee,  too,  the  question  is  asked ;  —  whether  by  a  man  in 
Geneva  gown,  by  a  man  in  "  Four  surplices  at  Allhallow- 
tide,"  with  words  very  imperfect  ;  or  by  no  man  and  no 
words,  but  only  by  the  Silences,  by  the  Eternities,  by  the 
Life  everlasting  and  the  Death  everlasting.  That  the 
"  Sense  of  difference  between  Right  and  Wrong  "  had  filled 
all  Time  and  all  Space  for  man,  and  bodied  itself  forth  into 


22  THOMAS    CARLYLE. 

a  Heaven  and  Hell  for  him  ;  this  constitutes  the  grand  fea- 
ture of  those  Puritan,  Old-Christian  Ages  ;  —  this  is  the 
element  which  stamps  them  as  Heroic,  and  has  rendered 
their  works  great,  manlike,  fruitful  to  all  generations.  It  is 
by  far  the  memorablest  achievement  of  our  Species ;  with- 
out that  element  in  some  form  or  other,  nothing  of  Heroic 
ha/1  ever  been  among  us. 

For  many  centuries  Catholic  Christianity  —  a  fit  embodi- 
ment of  that  divine  Sense  —  had  been  current  more  or  less, 
making  the  generations  noble :  and  here  in  England,  in  the 
Century  called  the  Seventeenth,  we  see  the  last  aspect  of  it 
hitherto,  —  not  the  last  of  all,  it  is  to  be  hoped.  Oliver 
was  henceforth  a  Christian  man ;  believed  in  God,  not  on 
Sundays  only,  but  on  all  days,  in  all  places,  and  in  all  case: 


CHARLES    AND    THE    PARLIAMENT. 

SIR  OLIVER  CROMWELL  has  faded  from  the  Parliament 
ary  scene  into  the  deep  Fen-country,  but  Oliver  Cromwell 
Esq.  appears  there  as  Member  for  Huntingdon,  at  West- 
minster "on  Monday,  the  17th  of  March,"  1627-8.  This 
was  the  Third  Parliament  of  Charles ;  by  much  the  most 
notable  of  all  Parliaments  till  Charles's  Long  Parliament 
met,  which  proved  his  last. 

Having  sharply,  with  swift  impetuosity  and  indignation, 
dismissed  two  Parliaments  because  they  would  not "  supply  " 
him  without  taking  "  grievances "  along  with  them  ;  and, 
meanwhile  and  afterwards,  having  failed  in  every  operation 
foreign  and  domestic,  at  Cadiz,  at  Rhe,  at  Rochelle  ;  and 
having  failed,  too,  in  getting  supplies  by  unparliamentary 
methods,  Charles  "  consulted  with  Sir  Robert  Cotton  what 
was  to  be  done ; "  who  answered,  Summon  a  Parliament 
again.  So  this  celebrated  Parliament  was  siimmoned.  It 


CROMWELL.  23 

met,  as  we  said,  in  March,  1628,  and  continued  with  one 
prorogation  till  March,  1629.  The  two  former  Parliaments 
had  sat  but  a  few  weeks  each,  till  they  were  indignantly 
hurled  asunder  again ;  this  one  continued  nearly  a  year. 
Wentworth  (Strafford)  was  of  this  Parliament ;  Hampden, 
too,  Selden,  Pym,  Holies,  and  others  known  to  us ;  all  these 
had  been  of  former  Parliaments  as  well ;  Oliver  Cromwell, 
Member  for  Huntingdon,  sat  there  for  the  first  time. 

It  is  very  evident,  King  Charles,  baffled  in  all  his  enter- 
prises, and  reduced  really  to  a  kind  of  crisis,  wished  much 
this  Parliament  should  succeed ;  and  took  what  he  must  have 
thought  incredible  pains  for  that  end.  The  poor  King 
strives  visibly  throughout  to  control  himself,  to  be  soft  and 
patient;  inwardly  writhing  and  rustling  with  royal  rage. 
Unfortunate  King,  we  see  him  chafing,  stamping,  —  a  very 
fiery  steed,  but  bridled,  check-bitted,  by  innumerable  straps 
and  considerations ;  struggling  much  to  be  composed. 
Alas !  it  would  not  do.  This  Parliament  was  more  Puri- 
tanic, more  intent  on  rigorous  Law  and  divine  Gospel, 
than  any  other  had  ever  been.  As  indeed  all  these  Parlia- 
ments grow  strangely  in  Puritianism  ;  more  and  ever  more 
earnest  rises  from  the  hearts  of  them  all,  "  0  Sacred  Majes- 
ty, lead  us  not  to  Antichrist,  to  Illegality,  to  temporal  and 
eternal  Perdition  ! "  The  Nobility  land  Gentry  of  England 
were  then  a  very  strange  body  of  men.  The  English 
Squire  of  the  Seventeenth  Century  clearly  appears  to  have 
believed  in  God,  not  as  a  figure  of  speech,  but  as  a  very 
fact,  very  awful  to  the  heart  of  the  English  Squire.  "  He 
wore  his  Bible  doctrine  round  him,"  says  one,  "as  our 
Squire  wears  his  shotbelt ;  went  abroad  with  it,  nothing 
doubting."  King  Charles  was  going  on  his  father's  course, 
only  with  frightful  acceleration:  he  and  his  respectable 
Traditions  and  Notions,  clothed  in  old  sheepskin  and 
respectable  Church-tippets,  were  all  pulling  one  way; 
England  and  the  Eternal  Laws  pulling  another;  the  rent 
fast  widening  till  no  man  could  heal  it. 


24  THOMAS    CARLYLE. 

This  was  the  celebrated  Parliament  which  framed  the  Peti- 
tion of  Right,  and  set  London  all  astir  with  "  bells  and  bon- 
fires "  at  the  passing  thereof ;  and  did  other  feats  not  to  be 
particularized  here.  Across  the  murkiest  element  in  which 
any  great  Entity  was  ever  shown  to  human  creatures,  it  still 
rises,  after  much  consideration,  to  the  modern  man,  in  a  dim 
but  undeniable  manner,  as  a  most  brave  and  noble  Parlia- 
ment. The  like  of  which  were  worth  its  weight  in  dia- 
monds even  now ;  but  has  grown  very  unattainable  now 
next  door  to  incredible  now.  We  have  to  say  that  this  Par- 
liament chastised  sycophant  Priests,  Mainwaring,  Sibthorp, 
and  other  Arminian  sycophants,  a  disgrace  to  God's 
Church;  that  it  had  an  eye  to  other  still  more  elevated 
Church-sycophants,  as  the  mainspring  of  all ;  but  was  cau- 
tious to  give  offence  by  naming  them.  That  it  carefully 
"  abstained  from  naming  the  Duke  of  Buckingham."  That 
it  decided  on  giving  ample  subsidies,  but  not  till  there  were 
reasonable  discussion  of  grievances.  That  in  manner  it  was 
most  gentle,  soft-spoken,  cautious,  reverential ;  and  in  sub- 
stance most  resolute  and  valiant.  Truly  with  valiant,  pa- 
tient energy,  in  a  slow,  steadfast  English  manner,  it  car- 
ried, across  infinite  confused  opposition  and  discouragement, 
its  Petition  of  Right,  and  what  else  it  had  to  carry.  Four 
hundred  brave  men,  —  brave  men  and  true,  after  their  sort ! 
One  laments  to  find  such  a  Parliament  smothered  under 
Dryasdust's  shot-rubbish.  The  memory  of  it,  could  any 
real  .memory  of  it  rise  upon  honorable  gentlemen  and  us, 
might  be  admonitory,  —  would  be  astonishing  at  least. 


A    GENTLEMAN    FARMER. 

IN  or  soon  after  1631,  as  we  laboriously  infer  from  the 
imbroglio   records   of  poor   Noble,  Oliver   decided   on    an 


25 

enlarged  sphere  of  action  as  a  Farmer ;  sold  his  properties 
in  Huntingdon,  all  or  some  of  them ;  rented  certain  grazing- 
lands  at  St.  Ives,  five  miles  down  the  River,  eastward  of  his 
native  place,  and  removed  thither.  The  Deed  of  Sale  is 
dated  7th  May,  1631  ;  the  properties  are  specified  as  in  the 
possession  of  himself  or  his  Mother  ;  the  sum  they  yielded 
was  £1800.  With  this  sum  Oliver  stocked  his  Grazing- 
Farm  at  St.  Ives.  The  Mother,  we  infer,  continued  to 
reside  at  Huntingdon,  but  withdrawn  now  from  active  occu- 
pation, in  the  retirement  befitting  a  widow  up  in  years. 
There  is  even  some  gleam  of  evidence  to  that  effect :  her 
properties  are  sold ;  but  Oliver's  children  born  to  him  at  St. 
Ives  are  still  christened  at  Huntingdon,  in  the  Church  he 
was  used  to ;  which  may  mean  also  that  their  good  Grand- 
mother was  still  there. 

Properly  this  was  no  change  in  Oliver's  old  activities ;  it 
was  an  enlargement  of  the  sphere  of  them.  His  Mother 
still  at  Huntingdon,  within  few  miles  of  him,  he  could  still 
superintend  and  protect  her  existence  there,  while  managing 
his  new  operations  at  St.  Ives.  He  continued  here  till  the 
summer  or  spring  of  1636.  A  studious  imagination  may 
sufficiently  construct  the  figure  of  his  equable  life  in  those 
years.  Diligent  grass-farming ;  mowing,  milking,  cattle- 
marketing  :  add  u  hypocondria,"  fits  of  the  blackness  of 
darkness,  with  glances  of  the  brightness  of  very  Heaven  ; 
prayer,  religious  reading  and  meditation ;  household  epochs, 
joys,  and  cares  :  —  we  have  a  solid,  substantial,  inoffensive 
Farmer  of  St.  Ives,  hoping  to  walk  with  integrity  and  hum- 
ble devout  diligence  through  this  world  ;  and,  by  his  Mak- 
er's infinite  mercy,  to  escape  destruction,  and  find  eternal 
salvation  in  wider  Divine  Worlds.  This  latter,  this  is  the 
grand  clause  in  his  Life,  which  dwarfs  all  other  clauses. 
Much  wider  destinies  than  he  anticipated  were  appointed 
him  on  Earth ;  but  that,  in  comparison  to  the  alternative  of 
Heaven  or  Hell  to  all  Eternity,  was  a  mighty  small  matter. 
2 


26  THOMAS  CARLYLE. 


VESTIGES. 

OLIVER,  as  we  observed,  has  left  hardly  any  memorial  of 
himself  at  St.  Ives.  The  ground  he  farmed  is  still  partly 
capable  of  being  specified,  certain  records  or  leases  being 
still  in  existence.  It  lies  at  the  lower  or  South-east  end  of 
the  Town ;  a  stagnant  flat  tract  of  land,  extending  between 
the  houses  or  rather  kitchen-gardens  of  St.  Ives  in  that 
quarter,  and  the  banks  of  the  River,  which,  very  tortuous 
always,  has  made  a  .new  bend  here.  If  well  drained,  this 
land  looks  as  if  it  would  produce  abundant  grass,  but  natur- 
ally it  must  be  little  other  than  a  bog.  Tall  bushy  ranges 
of  willow-trees  and  the  like,  at  present,  divide  it  into  fields ; 
the  River,  not  visible  till  you  are  close  on  it,  bounding 
them  all  to  the  South.  At  the  top  of  the  fields  next  to  the 
Town  is  an  ancient  massive  Barn,  still  used  as  such ;  the 
people  call  it  "  Cromwell's  Barn ; "  —  and  nobody  can  prove 
that  it  was  not  his  !  It  was  evidently  some  ancient  man's 
or  series  of  ancient  men's. 

Quitting  St.  Ives  Fen-ward  or  Eastward,  the  last  house 
of  all,  which  stands  on  your  right  hand  among  gardens, 
seemingly  the  best  house  in  the  place,  and  called  Slepe 
Hall,  is  confidently  pointed  out  as  "  Oliver's  House."  It  is 
indisputably  Slepe-Hall  House,  and  Oliver's  Farm  was 
rented  from  the  estate  of  Slepe  Hall.  It  is  at  present  used 
for  a  Boarding-school :  the  worthy  inhabitants  believe  it  to 
be  Oliver's ;  and  even  point  out  his  "  Chapel "  or  secret  Pu- 
ritan Sermon-room  in  the  lower  story  of  the  house :  no  Ser- 
mon-room, as  you  may  well  discern,  but  to  appearance  some 
sort  of  scullery  or  wash-house  or  bake-house.  "  It  was  here 
he  used  to  preach,"  say  they.  Courtesy  forbids  you  to 
answer,  "  Never  ! "  But  in  fact  there  is  no  likelihood  that 
this  was  Oliver's  House  at  all :  in  its  present  state  it  does 
not  seem  to  be  a  century  old ;  and  originally,  as  is  like,  it 


CROMWELL.  27 

must  have  served  as  residence  to  the  Proprietors  of  Slepe- 
Hall  estate,  not  to  the  Farmer  of  a  part  thereof.  Tradition 
makes  a  sad  blur  of  Oliver's  memory  in  his  native  country  ! 
We  know,  and  shall  know,  only  this,  for  certain  here,  that 
Oliver  farmed  part  or  whole  of  these  Slepe-Hall  Lands, 
over  which  the  human  feet  can  still  walk  with  assurance  ; 
past  which  the  River  Ouse  still  slumberously  rolls  towards 
Earith  Bulwark  and  the  Fen-country.  Here  of  a  certainty 
Oliver  did  walk  and  look  about  him  habitually  during  those 
five  years  from  1631  to  1636;  a  man  studious  of  many 
temporal  and  many  eternal  things.  His  cattle  grazed  here, 
his  ploughs  tilled  here,  the  heavenly  skies  and  infernal 

abysses  overarched  and  underarched  him  here 

How  he  lived  at  St.  Ives :  how  he  saluted  men  on  the 
streets ;  read  Bibles ;  sold  cattle ;  and  walked,  with  heavy 
footfall  and  many  thoughts,  through  the  Market  Green  or 
old  narrow  lanes  in  St.  Ives,  by  the  shore  of  the  black 
Ouse  River,  —  shall  be  left  to  the  reader's  imagination. 
There  is  in  this  man  talent  for  farming ;  there  are  thoughts 
enough,  thoughts  bounded  by  the  Ouse  River,  thoughts  that 
go  beyond  Eternity,  —  and  a  great  black  sea  of  things  that 
he  has  never  yet  been  able  to  think. 


SHIPMONEY. 

ON  the  very  day  while  Oliver  Cromwell  was  writing  this 
Letter  at  St.  Ives,  two  obscure  individuals,  "  Peter  Aldridge 
and  Thomas  Lane,  Assessors  of  Shipmoney,"  over  in  Buck- 
inghamshire, had  assembled  a  Parish  Meeting  in  the  Church 
of  Great  Kimble,  to  assess,  and  rate  the  Shipmoney  of  the 
said  Parish :  there,  in  the  cold  weather,  at  the  foot  of  the 
Chiltern  Hills,  "  11  January,  1635,"  the  Parish  did  attend, 
44  John  Hampden,  Esquire,"  at  the  head  of  them,  and  by  a 


28  THOMAS    CARLYLE. 

Return  still  extant,  refused  to  pay  the  same  or  any  portion 
thereof,  —  witness  the  above  "  Assessors,"  witness  aiso  two 
"  Parish  Constables  "  whom  we  remit  from  such  unexpected 
celebrity.  John  Hampden's  share  for  this  Parish  is  thirty- 
one  shillings  and  sixpence :  for  another  Parish  it  is  twenty 
shillings ;  on  which  latter  sum,  not  on  the  former,  John 
Hampden  was  tried. 


THE    SHIPMONEY    TRIAL. 

IN  the  end  of  that  same  year  [1637]  there  had  risen  all 
over  England  huge  rumors  concerning  the  Shipmoney  Trial 
at  London.  On  the  6th  of  November,  1637,  this  important 
Process  of  Mr.  Hampden's  began.  Learned  Mr.  St.  John, 
a  dark  tough  man,  of  the  toughness  of  leather,  spake  with 
irrefragable  law-eloquence,  law-logic,  for  three  days  run- 
ning, on  Mr.  Hampden's  side ;  and  learned  Mr.  Holborn 
for  three  other  days ;  —  preserved  yet  by  Rushworth  in 
acres  of  typography,  unreadable  now  to  all  mortals.  For 
other  learned  gentlemen,  tough  as  leather,  spoke  on  the 
opposite  side ;  and  learned  judges  animadverted,  at  endless 
length,  amid  the  expectancy  of  men.  With  brief  pauses, 
the  Trial  lasted  for  three  weeks  and  three  days.  Mr. 
Hampden  became  the  most  famous  man  in  England,  —  by 
aciident  partly.  The  sentence  was  not  delivered  till  April, 
1638  ;  and  then  it  went  against  Mr.  Hampden:  judgment 
in  Exchequer  ran  to  this  effect,  "  Gonsideratum  est  per  eos- 
dem  Barones  quod  prcedictus  Johannes  Hampden  de  iisdem 
viginti  solidis  oneretur"  —  He  must  pay  the  Twenty  shil 
Hugs,  — "  et  inde  satisfaciat."  No  hope  in  Law-Courts, 
then ;  Petition  of  Right  and  Tallagio  non  concedendo 
have  become  an  old  song. 


CROMWELL. 


BATTLE    OF    NASEBY. 

THE  old  Hamlet  of  Naseby  stands  yet,  on  its  old  hill-top, 
very  much  as  it  did  in  Saxon  days,  on  the  Northwestern 
border  of  Northamptonshire,  some  seven  or  eight  miles 
from  Market-Harborough  in  Leicestershire,  nearly  on  a 
line,  and  nearly  nrdway,  between  that  Town  and  Daventry. 
A  peaceable  old  Hamlet,  of  some  eight  hundred  souls  ;  clay 
cottages  for  laborers,  but  neatly  thatched  and  swept ; 
smith's  shop,  saddler's  shop,  beer  shop,  all  in  order ;  form- 
ing a  kind  of  square,  which  leads  off  Southwards  into  two 
long  streets :  the  old  Church,  with  its  graves,  stands  in  the 
centre,  the  truncated  spire  finishing  itself  with  a  strange  old 
Ball,  held  up  by  rods  ;  a  "  hollow  copper  Ball,  which  came 
from  Boulogne  in  Henry  the  Eighth's  time,"  —  which  has, 
like  Hudibras's  breeches,  "  been  at  the  Siege  of  Bullen." 
The  ground  is  upland,  moorland,  though  now  growing  corn ; 
was  not  enclosed  till  the  last  generation,  and  is  still  some- 
what bare  of  wood.  It  stands  nearly  in  the  heart  of  Eng- 
land: gentle  Dulness,  taking  a  turn  at  etymology,  some- 
times derives  it  from  Navel ;  "  Navesby,  quasi  Navelsby, 
from  being,"  &c. :  Avon  Well,  the  distinct  source  of 
Shakespeare's  Avon,  is  on  the  Western  slope  of  the  high 
grounds ;  Nen  and  Welland,  streams  leading  towards  Crom- 
well's Fen-country,  begin  to  gather  themselves  from  boggy 
places  on  the  Eastern  side.  The  grounds,  as  we  say,,  lie 
high ;  and  are  still,  in  their  new  subdivisions,  known  by 
the  name  of  "  Hills,"  "  Rutput  Hill,"  "  Mill  Hill,"  "  Dust 
Hill,"  and  the  like,  precisely  as  in  Rushworth's  time  :  but 
they  are  not  properly  hills  at  all ;  they  are  broad  blunt 
clayey  masses,  swelling  towards  and  from  each  other,  like 
indolent  waves  of  a  sea,  sometimes  of  miles  in  extent. 

It  was  on  this  high  moor-ground,  in  the  centre  of  Eng- 
land, that  King  Charles,  on  the  14th  of  June,  1645,  fought 


30  THOMAS    CARLYLE. 

his  last  Battle ;  dashed  fiercely  against  the  New-Model 
Army,  ^  hich  he  had  despised  till  then ;  and  saw  himself 
ghivered  utterly  to  ruin  thereby.  "  Prince  Rupert,  on  the 
King's  right  wing,  charged  up  the  hill,  and  carried  all  be 
fore  him ; "  but  Lieutenant-General  Cromwell  charged  down 
hill  on  the  other  wing,  likewise  carrying  all  before  him,  — 
and  did  not  gallop  off  the  field  to  plunder.  He,  Cromwell, 
ordered  thither  by  the  Parliament,  had  arrived  from  the 
Association  two  days  before,  "  amid  shouts  from  the  whole 
Army : "  he  had  the  ordering  of  the  Horse  this  morning. 
Prince  Rupert,  on  returning  from  his  plunder,  finds  the 
King's  Infantry  a  ruin  ;  prepares  to  charge  again  with  the 
rallied  Cavalry ;  but  the  Cavalry,  too,  when  it  came  to  the 
point,  "  broke  all  asunder,"  never  to  reassemble  more.  The 
chase  went  through  Harborough,  where  the  King  had  al- 
ready been  that  morning,  when  in  an  evil  hour  he  turned 
back,  to  revenge  some  "  surprise  of  an  outpost  at  Naseby 
the  night  before,"  and  give  the  Roundheads  battle. 

Ample  details  of  this  Battle,  and  of  the  movements  prior 
and  posterior  to  it,  are  to  be  found  in  Sprigge,  or  copied 
with  some  abridgment  into  Rushworth  ;  who  has  also  copied 
a  strange  old  Plan  of  the  Battle  ;  half-plan,  half-picture, 
which  the  Sale-Catalogues  are  very  chary  of,  in  the  case  of 
Sprigge.  By  assiduous  attention,  aided  by  this  Plan,  as  the 
old  names  yet  stick  to  their  localities,  the  narrative  can  still 
be,  and  has  lately  been,  pretty  accurately  verified,  and  the 
Figure  of  the  old  Battle  dimly  brought  back  again.  The 
reader  shall  imagine  it,  for  the  present.  On  the  crown  of 
Naseby  Height  stands  a  modern  Battle-monument ;  but,  by 
an  unlucky  oversight,  it  is  above  a  mile  to  the  east  of  where 
the  Battle  really  was.  There  are,  likewise,  two  modern 
Books  about  Naseby  and  its  Battle,  both  of  them  without 
value. 

The  Parliamentary  Army  stood  ranged  on  the  height 
still  partly  called  "  Mill  Hill,"  as,  in  Rushworth's  time,  a 


CROMWELL.  31 

mile  and  half  from  Naseby  ;  the  King's  Army,  on  a  parallel 
«  Hill,"  its  back  to  Harborough,  with  the  wide  table  of  up- 
land now  named  Broad  Moor  between  them,  where  indeed 
the  main  brunt  of  the  action  still  clearly  enough  shows  it- 
self to  have  been.  There  are  hollow  spots,  of  a  rank  vegeta- 
tion, scattered  over  that  Broad  Moor,  which  are  understood 
to  have  once  been  burial  mounds,  some  of  which,  one  to  my 
knowledge,  have  been,  with  more  or  less  of  sacrilege,  veri- 
fied as  such.  A  friend  of  mine  has  in  his  cabinet  two  an- 
cient grinder-teeth,  dug  lately  from  that  ground,  and  waits 
for  an  opportunity  to  rebury  them  there.  —  Sound,  effectual 
grinders,  one  of  them  very  large  ;  which  ate  their  breakfast 
on  the  fourteenth  morning  of  June,  two  hundred  years  ago, 
and,  except  to  be  clinched  once  in  grim  battle,  had  never 
work  to  do  more  in  this  world !  "  A  stack  of  dead  bodies, 
perhaps  about  a  hundred,  had  been  buried  in  this  Trench, 
piled,  as  in  a  wall,  a  man's  length  thick ;  the  skeletons  lay 
in  courses,  the  heads  of  one  course  to  the  heels  of  the  next ; 
one  figure,  by  the  strange  position  of  the  bones,  gave  us  the 
hideous  notion  of  its  having  been  thrown  in  before  death. 
We  did  not  proceed  far  ;  —  perhaps  some  half-dozen  skele- 
tons. The  bones  were  treated  with  all  piety,  watched  rig- 
orously over  Sunday,  till  they  could  be  covered  in  again." 
Sweet  friends,  for  Jesus'  sake  forbear ! 

At  this  Battle,  Mr.  John  Rush  worth,  our  Historical  Rush- 
worth,  had,  unexpectedly,  for  some  instants,  sight  of  a  very 
famous  person.  Mr.  John  is  Secretary  to  Fairfax,  and  they 
have  placed  him  to-day  among  the  Baggage-wagons,  near 
Naseby  Hamlet,  above  a  mile  from  the  fighting,  where  he 
waits  in  an  anxious  manner.  It  is  known  how  Prince  Ru- 
pert broke  our  left  wing  while  Cromwell  was  breaking  their 
left  "  A  gentleman  of  public  employment,  in  the  late  ser- 
vice near  Xaseby,"  writes  next  day,  "Harborough,  15th 
June,  2  in  the  morning,"  a  rough  graphic  Letter  in  the 
Newspapers,  wherein  is  this  sentence :  — 


32  THOMAS    CARLYLE. 

*  *  *  "A  party  of  theirs  that  broke  through  the  left 
wing  of  horse,  came  quite  behind  the  rear  to  our  Train,  the 
Leader  of  them  being  a  person  somewhat  in  habit  like  the 
General,  in  a  red  montero.  as  the  General  had.  He  came 
as  a  friend  ;  our  commander  of  the  guard  of  the  Train  went 
with  his  hat  in  his  -hand,  and  asked  him,  How  the  day 
went?  thinking  it  had  been  the  General :  the  Cavalier,  who 
we  since  heard  was  Rupert,  asked  him  and  the  rest,  If  they 
would  have  quarter  ?  They  cried  No ;  gave  fire,  and  in- 
stantly beat  them  off.  It  was  a  happy  deliverance,"—! 
without  doubt. 

There  were  taken  here  a  good  few  "  ladies  of  quality  i* 
carriages,"  —  and  above  a  hundred  Irish  ladies  not  of  quali« 
ty,  tattery  camp-followers,  "  with  long  skean-knives  about  a 
foot  in  length,"  which  they  well  knew  how  to  use,  upon 
whom,  I  fear,  the  Ordinance  against  Papists  pressed  hard 
this  day.  The  King's  Carriage  was  also  taken,  with  a  Cab- 
inet and  many  Royal  Autographs  in  it,  which,  when  printed, 
made  a  sad  impression  against  his  Majesty,  —  gave,  in  fact, 
a  most  melancholy  view  of  the  veracity  of  his  Majesty. 
"  On  the  word  of  a  King,"  all  was  lost ! 


BRIDGET    CROMWELL'S    WEDDING. 

AND  now,  dated  on  the  Monday  before,  at  Holton,  a 
country  Parish  in  those  parts,<there  is  this  still  legible  in 
the  old  Church  Register,  —  intimately  interesting  to  some 
friends  of  ours  !  "  HENRY  IRETON,  Commissary- Gen- 
eral to  Sir  Thomas  Fairfax,  and  BRIDGET,  Daughter  to 
Oliver  Cromwell,  Lieutenant- General  of  the  Horse,  to  the 
said  Sir  Thomas  Fairfax,  were  married,  by  Mr.  Dell,  in  the 
Lady  Whorwood 'her  house  in  Holton,  June  15th,  1646. — 
ALBAN  BALES,  Rector." 


CROMWELL.  33 

Ireton,  we  are  to  remark,  was  one  of  Fairfax's  Com- 
missioners on  the  Treaty  for  surrendering  Oxford,  and 
busy  undor  the  walls  there  at  present,  llolton  is  some  five 
miles  east  of  the  City ;  Holton  House,  we  guess,  by  various 
indications,  to  have  been  Fairfax's  own  quarter.  Dell,  al- 
ready and  afterwards  well  known,  was  the  General's  Chap- 
lain at  this  date.  Of  "  the  Lady  Whorwood  "  I  have  traces, 
rather  in  the  Royalist  direction  ;  her  strong  moated  House, 
very  useful  to  Fairfax  in  those  weeks,  still  stands  conspicu- 
ous in  that  region,  though  now  under  new  figure  and  owner- 
ship ;  drawbridge  become  faced,  deep  ditch  now  dry,  moated 
;sland  changed  into  a  flower-garden;  —  "rebuilt  in  1807." 
Fairfax's  lines,  we  observe,  extended  "  from  Headingtor 
Hill  to  Marston,"  several  miles  in  advance  of  Holton 
House,  then  "  from  Marston,"  across  the  Cherwell,  "  and 
over  from  that  to  the  Isis  on  the  North  side  of  the  City  "  ; 
southward,  and  elsewhere,  the  besieged,  "by  a  dam  at  St. 
Clement's  Bridge,  had  laid  the  country  all  under  water  "  : 
in  such  scenes,  with  the  treaty  just  ending,  and  general 
peace  like  to  follow,  did  Ireton  welcome  his  bride,  —  a 
brave  young  damsel  of  twenty-one,  escorted,  doubtless,  by 
her  Father,  among  others,  to  the  Lord  General's  house, 
and  there,  by  Rev.  Mr.  Dell,  solemnly  handed  over  to 
new  destinies ! 


DEATH  WARRANT. 

THE  Trial  of  Charles  Stuart  falls  not  to  be  described  in 
this  place  :  the  deep  meanings  that  lie  in  it  cannot  be  so 
much  as  glanced  at  here.  Oliver  Cromwell  attends  in  the 
High  Court  of  Justice  at  every  session  except  one ;  Fairfax 
sits  only  in  the  first.  Ludlow,  Whalley,  Walton,  names 
known  to  us,  are  also  constant  attendants  in  that  High 
Court,  during  that  long -memorable  Month  of  January,  1649. 


34  THOMAS  CARLYLE. 

The  King  is  thrice  brought  to  the  Bar ;  refuses  to  plead, 
comports  himself  with  royal  dignity,  with  royal  haughti- 
ness, strong  in  his  divine  right ;  "  smiles  "  contemptuously, 
"  looks  with  an  austere  countenance ; "  does  not  seem,  till 
the  very  last,  to  have  fairly  believed  that  they  would  dare 
to  sentence  him.  But  they  were  men  sufficiently  provided 
with  daring ;  men,  we  are  bound  to  see,  who  sat  there  as  in 
the  Presence  of  the  Maker  of  all  men,  as  executing  the  judg- 
ments of  Heaven  above,  and  had  not  the  fear  of  any  man  or 
thing  on  the  Earth  below.  Bradshaw  said  to  the  King, 
"  Sir,  you  are  not  permitted  to  issue  out  in  these  discours- 
ings.  This  Court  is  satisfied  of  its  authority.  No  Court  will 
bear  to  hear  its  authority  questioned  in  that  manner."  — 
"  Clerk,  read  the  Sentence !  " 

And  so,  under  date,  Monday  29th  January,  1648-9,  there 
is  this  stern  Document  to  be  introduced ;  not  specifically  of 
Oliver's  composition  ;  but  expressing  in  every  letter  of  it 
the  conviction  of  Oliver's  heart,  in  this,  one  of  his  most  im- 
portant appearances  on  the  stage  of  earthly  life. 

To  Colonel  Francis  flacker,   Colonel  flunch,  and  Lieuten- 
ant-Colonel Phayr,  and  to  every  one  of  them. 

At  the  High  Court  of  Justice  for  the  Trying  and  Judging  of 
Charles  Stuart,  King  of  England,  29th  January,  1648. 

WHEREAS  Charles  Stuart,  King  of  England,  is  and 
standeth  convicted,  attainted  and  condemned  of  High  Trea- 
son and  other  high  Crimes ;  and  Sentence  upon  Saturday 
last  was  pronounced  against  him  by  this  Court,  To  be  put  to 
death  by  the  severing  of  his  head  from  his  body  ;  of  which 
Sentence  execution  yet  remaineth  to  be  done  : 

These  are  therefore  to  will  and  require  you  to  see  the 
said  Sentence  executed,  in  the  open  street  before  Whitehall, 
upon  the  morrow,  being  the  Thirtieth  day  of  this  instant 
month  of  January,  between  the  hours  of  Ten  in  the  morn- 


CROMWELL.  35 

iiig  and  Five  in  the  afternoon,  with  full  effect.     And  for  so 
doing,  this  shall  be  jour  warrant. 

And  these  are  to  require  all  Officers  and  Soldiers,  and 
others  the  good  People  of  this  Nation  of  England,  to  be 
assisting  unto  you  in  this  service. 

Given  under  our  hands  and  seals. 
JOHN  BRADSHAW, 
THOMAS   GREY,  "Lord  Groby," 
OLIVER  CROMWELL. 

("And  Fifty-six  others.") 

"  Tetrce  lettuce,  ac  molossis  suis  ferociores.  Hideous  mon- 
sters, more  ferocious  than  their  own  mastiffs  !  "  shrieks  Sau- 
maise  ;  shrieks  all  the  world,  in  unmelodious  soul-confusing 
diapason  of  distraction,  —  happily  at  length  grown  very 
faint  in  our  day.  The  truth  is,  no  modern  reader  can  con- 
ceive the  then  atrocity,  ferocity,  unspeakability  of  this  fact. 
First,  after  long  reading  in  the  old  dead  Pamphlets  does 
one  see  the  magnitude  of  it.  To  be  equalled,  nay  to  be  pre- 
ferred think  some,  in  point  of  horror,  to  *•  the  Crucifixion  of 
Christ."  Alas,  in  these  irreverent  times  of  ours,  if  all  the 
Kings  of  Europe  were  cut  in  pieces  at  one  swoop,  and  flung 
in  heaps  in  St.  Margaret's  Churchyard  on  the  same  day,  the 
emotion  would,  in  strict  arithmetical  truth,  be  small  in  com- 
parison! We  know  it  not,  this  atrocity  of  the  English 
Regicides  ;  shall  never  know  it.  I  reckon  it  perhaps  the 
most  daring  action  any  Body  of  Men  to  be  met  with  in  His- 
tory ever,  with  clear  consciousness,  deliberately  set  them- 
selves to  do.  Dread  Phantoms,  glaring  supernal  on  you,  — 
when  once  they  are  quelled  and  their  light  snuffed  out, 
none  knows  the  terror  of  the  Phantom  !  The  Phantom  is  a 
poor  paper-lantern  with  a  candle-end  in  it,  which  any  whip- 
ster dare  now  beard. 

A  certain  Queen  in  some  South-Sea  Island,  I  have  read 
in  Missionary  Books,  had  been  converted  to  Christianity; 


36  THOMAS   CARLYLE. 

did  not  any  longer  believe  in  the  old  gods.  She  assembled 
her  people ;  said  to  them,  "  My  faithful  People,  the  gods  do 
not  dwell  in  that  burning  mountain  in  the  centre  of  our  Isle. 
That  is  not  God  ;  no,  that  is  a  common  burning-moun- 
tain,—  mere  culinary  fire  burning  under  peculiar  circum- 
stances. See,  I  will  walk  before  you  to  that  burning- 
mountain  ;  will  empty  my  wash-bowl  into  it,  cast  my  slipper 
over  it,  defy  it  to  the  uttermost;  and  stand  the  conse- 
quences!" She  walked  accordingly,  this  South- Sea  Hero- 
ine, nerved  to  the  sticking-place  ;  her  people  following  in 
pale  horror  and  expectancy :  she  did  her  experiment ;  — 
and,  I  am  told,  they  have  truer  notions  of  the  gods  in  that 
Island  ever  since !  Experiment  which  it  is  now  very  easy 
to  repeat,  and  very  needless.  Honor  to  the  Brave  who  de- 
liver us  from  Phantom-dynasties,  in  South-Sea  Islands  and 
in  North ! 

This  action  of  the  English  Regicides  did  in  effect  strike  a 
damp  like  death  through  the  heart  of  Flunkeyism  univer- 
sally in  this  world.  Whereof  Flunkeyism,  Cant,  Cloth-wor- 
ship, or  whatever  ugly  name  it  have,  has  gone  about  incura- 
bly sick  ever  since ;  and  is  now  at  length,  in  these  genera- 
tions, very  rapidly  dying.  The  like  of  which  action  will  not 
be  needed  for  a  thousand  years  again.  Needed,  alas  —  not 
till  a  new  genuine  Hero-worship  has  arisen,  has  perfected 
itself;  and  had  time  to  generate  into  a  Flunkeyism  and 
Cloth-worship  again !  Which  I  take  to  be  a  very  long  date 
indeed. 


MR.    MILTON 

ON  which  same  evening,  [March  13,  1468,]  furthermore, 
one  discerns  in  a  faint  but  an  authentic  manner,  certain  dim 
gentlemen  of  the  highest  authority,  young  Sir  Harry  Vane 
to  appearance  one  of  them,  repairing  to  the  lodging  of  one 


CROMWELL.  37 

Mr.  Milton,  "  a  small  house  in  Holborn,  which  opens  back- 
wards into  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields ;  to  put  an  official  question 
to  him  there."  Not  a  doubt  of  it  they  saw  Mr.  John  this 
evening.  In  the  official  Book  this  yet  stands  legible  : 

"  Die  Martis,  13°  Martii,  1648."  "  That  it  is  referred  to 
the  same  Committee,"  Whitlocke,  Vane,  Lord  Lisle,  Earl 
of  Denbigh,  Harry  Marten,  Mr.  Lisle,  "  or  any  two  of  them, 
to  speak  with  Mr.  Milton,  to  know,  Whether  he  will  be  em- 
ployed as  Secretary  for  the  Foreign  Languages  ?  and  to  re- 
port to  the  Council."  I  have  authority  to  say  that  Mr. 
Milton,  thus  unexpectedly  applied  to,  consents  ;  is  formally 
appointed  on  Thursday  next ;  makes  his  proof-shot,  "  to  the 
Senate  of  Hamburgh,"  about  a  week  hence ;  —  and  gives, 
and  continues  to  give,  great  satisfaction  to  that  Council,  to 
me,  and  to  the  whole  Nation  now,  and  to  all  Nations! 
Such  romance  lies  in  the  State-Paper  Office. 


THE  LEVELLERS  — ENGLISH  SANSCULOTTISM. 

WHILE  Miss  Dorothy  Mayor  is  choosing  her  wedding- 
dresses,  and  Richard  Cromwell  is  looking  forward  to  a  life 
of  Arcadian  felicity  now  near  at  hand,  there  has  turned  up 
for  Richard's  Father  and  other  parties  interested,  on  the 
public  side  of  things,  a  matter  of  very  different  complexion, 
requiring  to  be  instantly  dealt  with  in  the  interim.  The 
matter  of  the  class  called  Levellers ;  concerning  which  we 
must  now  say  a  few  words. 

In  1647  there  were  Army  Adjutators ;  and  among  some 
of  them  wild  notions  afloat,  as  to  the  swift  attainability  of 
Perfect  Freedom,  civil  and  religious,  and  a  practical  Mil- 
lennium on  this  Earth ;  notions  which  required',  in  the  Ren- 
dezvous at  Corkbushfield,  "  Rendezvous  of  Ware,"  as  they 
oftenest  call  it,  to  be  very  resolutely  trodden  out.  Eleven 


38  THOMAS    CARLYLE. 

chief  mutineers  were  ordered  from  the  ranks  in  that  Ren- 
dezvous ;  were  condemned  by  swift  Court-Martial  to  die ; 
and  Trooper  Arnald,  one  of  them,  was  accordingly  shot 
there  and  then;  which  extinguished  the  mutiny  for  that 
time.  War  since,  and  Justice  on  Delinquents,  England 
made  a  Free  Commonwealth,  and  such  like,  have  kept  the 
Army  busy;  but  a  deep  republican  leaven,  working  all 
along  among  these  men,  breaks  now  again  into  very  for- 
midable development.  As  the  following  brief  glimpses  and 
excerpts  may  satisfy  an  attentive  reader  who  will  spread 
them  out,  to  the  due  expansion,  in  his  mind.  Take  first 
this  glimpse  into  the  civil  province ;  and  discern  with 
amazement,  a  whole  submarine  world  of  Calvinistic  Sanscu- 
lottism,  Five-point  Charter,  and  the  Rights  of  Man,  threat- 
ening to  emerge  almost  two  centuries  before  its  time. 

"The  Council  of  State,"  says  Whitlocke,  just  while 
Mr.  Barton  is  boggling  about  the  Hursley  Marriage-settle- 
ments, "has  intelligence  of  certain  Levellers  appearing  at  St. 
Margaret's  Hill,  near  Cobham  in  Surrey,  and  at  St.  George's 
Hill,"  in  the  same  quarter:  "that  they  were  digging  the 
ground,  and  sowing  it  with  roots  and  beans.  One  Everard, 
once  of  the  Army,  who  terms  himself  a  Prophet,  is  the 
chief  of  them : "  one  Winstanley  is  another  chief.  They 
were  Thirty  men,  and  said  that  they  should  be  shortly  Four- 
thousand.  They  invited  all  to  come  in  and  help  them ;  and 
promised  them  meat,  drink,  and  clothes.  They  threatened 
to  pull  down  Park-pales,  and  to  lay  all  open  ;  and  threaten 
the  neighbors  that  they  will  shortly  make  them  all  come  up 
to  the  hills  and  work."  These  infatuated  persons,  begin- 
ning a  new  era  in  this  headlong  manner  on  the  chalk  hills 
of  Surrey,  are  laid  hold  of  by  certain  Justices,  "  by  the  coun- 
try people,"  and  also  by  "  two  troops  of  horse ;  "  and  com- 
plain loudly  of  such  treatment ;  appealing  to  all  men 
whether  it  be  fair.  This  is  the  account  they  give  of  them- 
selves when  brought  before  the  General  some  days  after- 
wards: 


CROMWELL.  39 

*  Apr  it  20th,  1649.  Everard  and  Winstanley,  the  chief 
of  those  that  digged  at  St.  George's  Hill  in  Surrey,  came  to 
the  General  and  made  a  large  declaration,  to  justify  their 
proceedings.  Everard  said,  He  was  of  the  race  of  the 
Jews,"  as  most  men  called  Saxon,  and  other,  prop  erly  are ; 
"  That  all  the  Liberties  of  the  People  were  lost  by  the  com- 
ing in  of  William  the  Conquerer ;  and  that,  ever  since,  the 
People  of  God  had  lived  under  tyranny  and  oppression 
worse  than  that  of  our  Forefathers  under  the  Egyptians. 
But  now  the  time  of  deliverance  was  at  hand;  and  God 
would  bring  His  People  out  of  this  slavery,  and  restore 
them  to  their  freedom  in  enjoying  the  fruits  and  benefits  of 
the  Earth.  And  that  there  had  lately  appeared  to  him, 
Everard,  a  vision ;  which  bade  him,  Arise  and  dig  and 
plough  the  Earth,  and  receive  the  fruits  thereof.  That 
their  intent  is  to  restore  the  Creation  to  its  former  condi- 
tion. That  as  God  had  promised  to  make  the  barren  land 
fruitful,  so  now  what  they  did,  was  to  restore  the  ancient 
Community  of  enjoying  the  Fruits  of  the  Earth,  and  to  dis- 
tribute the  benefit  thereof  to  the  poor  and  needy,  and  to  feed 
the  hungry  and  clothe  the  naked.  That  they  intend  not 
to  meddle  with  any  man's  property,  nor  to  break  down  any 
pales  or  enclosures,"  in  spite  of  reports  to  the  contrary; 
"  but  only  to  meddle  with  what  is  common  and  untilled,  and 
to  make  it  fruitful  for  the  use  of  man.  That  the  time  will 
suddenly  be,  when  all  men  shall  willingly  come  in  and  give 
up  their  lands  and  estates,  and  submit  to  this  Community  of 
Gpods." 

These  are  the  principles  of  Everard,  Winstanley,  and  the 
poor  Brotherhood,  seemingly  Saxon,  but  properly  of  the 
race  of  the  Jews,  who  were  found  dibbling  beans  on  St. 
George's  Hill,  under  the  clear  April  skies  in  1649,  and 
hastily  bringing  in  a  new  era  in  that  manner.  "  And  for 
all  such  as  will  come  in  and  work  with  them,  they  shal] 
have  meat,  drink,  and  clothes,  which  is  all  that  is  necessary 


40  THOMAS    CARLYLE. 

to  the  life  of  man :  and  as  for  money,  there  is  not  any  need 
of  it ;  nor  of  clothes  more  than  to  cover  nakedness."  For 
the  rest,  "That  they  will  not  defend  themselves  by  arms, 
but  will  submit  unto  authority,  and  wait  till  the  promised 
opportunity  be  offered,  which  they  conceive  to  be  at  hand. 
And  that  as  their  forefathers  lived  in  tents,  so  it  would  be 
suitable  to  their  condition,  now  to  live  in  the  same. 

"  While  they  were  before  the  General,  they  stood  with 
their  hats  on ;  and  being  demanded  the  reason  thereof,  they 
said,  Because  he  was  but  their  fellow-creature.  Being 
asked  the  meaning  of  that  phrase,  Give  honor  to  whom  hon- 
or is  due,  —  they  said,  Your  mouths  shall  be  stopped  that 
ask  such  a  question." 

Dull  Bulstrode  hath  "  set  down  this  the  more  largely  be- 
cause it  was  the  beginning  of  the  appearance  "  of  an  exten- 
sive levelling  doctrine,  much  to  be  "  avoided "  by  judicious 
persons,  seeing  it  is  "a  weak  persuasion."  The  germ  of 
Quakerism,  and  much  else,  is  curiously  visible  here.  But 
let  us  look  now  at  the  military  phasis  of  the  matter  ;  where 
"a  weak  persuasion,"  mounted  on  cavalry  horses,  with 
sabres  and  fire-arms  in  its  hand,  may  become  a  very  peril 
ous  one. 

Friday,  20th  April,  1649.  The  Lieutenant-General  has 
consented  to  go  to  Ireland ;  the  City  also  will  lend  money  ; 
and  now  this  Friday  the  Council  of  the  Army  meets  al 
Whitehall  to  decide  what  regiments  shall  go  on  that  ser- 
vice. "After  a  solemn  seeking  of  God  by  prayer,"  they 
agree  that  it  shall  be  by  lot:  tickets  are  put  into  a  hat,  a 
child  draws  them :  the  regiments,  fourteen  of  foot  and  four- 
teen of  horse,  are  decided  on  in  this  manner.  "  The  offi- 
cers on  whom  the  lot  fell,  in  all  the  twenty-eight  regiments, 
expressed  much  cheerfulness  at  the  decision."  The  officers 
did  :  —  but  the  common  men  are  by  no  means  all  of  that 
humor.  The  common  men,  blown  upon  by  Lilburn,  and 
his  five  small  Beagles,  have  notions  about  Engand's  new 


CROMWELL.  41 

Chains,  about  the  Hunting  of  Foxes  from  Triploe  Heath, 
and  in  fact  ideas  concerning  the  capability  that  lies  in  man, 
and  in  a  free  Commonwealth,  which  are  of  the  most  alarm- 
ing description. 

Thursday,  26th  April     This  night  at  the  Bull  in  Bish- 
opsgate  there  has   an   alarming   mutiny  broken   out   in   a 
troop  of  Whalley's  regiment  there.     Wha]  ley's  men  are  not 
allotted  for  Ireland :  but  they  refuse  to  quit  London,  as  they 
are  ordered  ;  they  want  this  and  that  first ;  they  seize  their 
colors  from  the  Cornet,  who  is  lodged  at  the  Bull  there  :  — 
the    General   and   the  Lieu  tenant- General  have  to  hasten 
thither ;  quell  them,  pack  them  forth  on  their  march ;  seiz- 
ing fifteen   of  them   first,  to   be   tried   by    Court-Martial. 
Tried   by  instant    Court-Martial,  five   of  them   are   found 
guilty,  doomed   to   die,  but   pardoned ;  and  one   of  them, 
Trooper  Lockyer,  is  doomed  and  not  pardoned.     Trooper 
Lockyer  is  shot,  in  Paul's  Churchyard,  on  the  morrow.     A 
very  brave   young   man,  they  say ;  though  but  three-and- 
twenty,  "  he  has  served  seven  years  in  these  Wars,"  ever 
since    the   Wars   began.     "  Religious,"   too,   "  of  excellent 
parts   and   much   beloved;"  —  but  with  hot  notions  as   to 
human  Freedom,  and  the  rate   at  which   the   milleianiums 
are   attainable,   poor   Lockyer!      He  falls   shot   in    Paul's 
Churchyard  on  Friday,  amid  the  tears  of  men  and  women. 
Paul's  Cathedral,  we  remark,  is  now  a  Horseguard ;  horses 
stamp  in  the  Canons'  stalls  there :  and  Paul's  Cross  itself, 
as   smacking   of  Popery,   where   in   fact   Alablaster   cn.e 
preached  flat  Popery,  is   swept   altogether   away,  and   its 
leaden   roof  melted   into   bullets,   or   mixed   with   tin   for 
culinary  pewter.     Lockyer's    corpse   is  watched   and  wept 
over,  not  without  prayer,  in  the  eastern  regions  of  the  City, 
till  a  new  week  come ;  and  on  Monday,  this  is  what  we  see 
ad\  ancing  westward  by  way  of  funeral  to  him. 

"  About  one  hundred  went  before  the  Corpse,  five  or  six 
in  a  file;  the  Corpse  was  then  brought,  with  six  trumpets 


42  THOMAS   CARLYLE. 

sounding  a  soldier's  knell ;  then  the  Trooper's  Horse  came, 
clothed  all  over  in  mourning,  and  led  by  a  footman.  The 
Corpse  was  adorned  with  bundles  of  Rosemary,  one  half 
stained  in  blood;  and  the  Sword  of  the  deceased  along  with 
them.  Some  thousands  followed  in  rank  and  file :  all  had 
sea-green-and-black  ribbons  tied  on  their  hats,  and  to  their 
breasts :  and  the  women  brought  up  the  rear.  At  the  new 
Churchyard  in  Westminster,  some  thousands  more  of  the 
better  sort  met  them,  who  thought  not  fit  to  march  thrcugh 
the  City.  Many  looked  upon  this  funeral  as  an  affront  to 
the  Parliament  and  Army ;  others  called  these  people  '  Lev- 
ellers ; '  but  they  took  no  notice  of  any  one's  sayings." 

That  was  the  end  of  Trooper  Lockyer  :  six  trumpets  wail- 
ing stern  music  through  London  streets ;  Rosemaries  and 
Sword  half-dipped  in  blood ;  funeral  of  many  thousands  in 
seagreen  Ribbons  and  black :  —  testimony  of  a  weak  per- 
suasion, now  looking  somewhat  perilous.  Lieutenant-Colo- 
nel Lilburn,  and  his  five  small  Beagles,  now  in  a  kind  of 
loose  arrest  under  the  Lieutenant  of  the  Tower,  make  haste 
to  profit  by  the  general  emotion  ;  publish  on  the  1st  of  May 
their  "  Agreement  of  the  People,"  —  their  Bentham-Sieyes 
Constitution  :  Annual  very  exquisite  Parliament,  and  other 
Lilburn  apparatus ;  whereby  the  Perfection  of  Human  Na- 
ture will  with  a  maximum  of  rapidity  be  secured,  and  a 
millennium  straightway  arrive,  sings  the  Lilburn  Oracle. 

May  9/A.  Richard  Cromwell  is  safe  wedded  ;  Richard's 
Father  is  reviewing  troops  in  Hyde  Park,  "  seagreen  colors 
in  some  of  their  hats."  The  Lieutenant-General  speaks  ear- 
nestly to  them.  Has  not  the  Parliament  been  diligent,  do- 
ing its  best  ?  It  has  punished  Delinquents ;  it  has  voted,  in 
these  very  days,  resolutions  for  dissolving  itself  and  assem- 
bling future  Parliaments.  It  has  protected  trade;  got  a 
good  Navy  afloat.  You  soldiers,  there  is  exact  payment 
provided  for  you.  Martial  Law  ?  Death,  or  other  punish- 
ment of  mutineers  ?  Well !  Whoever  cannot  stand  Mar- 


CROMWELL.  43 

tial  Law  is  not  fit  to  be  a  soldier :  his  best  plan  will  be  to 
lay  down  his  arms ;  lie  shall  have  his  ticket,  and  get  his  ar- 
rears as  we  others  do,  —  we  that  still  mean  to  fight  against 
the  enemies  of  England  and  this  Cause.  —  One  trooper 
showed  signs  of  insolence ;  the  Lieutenant-General  sup- 
pressed him  by  rigor  and  by  clemency :  the  seagreen  rib- 
bons were  torn  from  such  hats  as  had  them.  The  humor 
of  the  men  is  not  the  most  perfect.  This  Review  was  on 
Wednesday :  Lilburn  and  his  five  small  Beagles  are,  on 
Saturday,  committed  close  Prisoners  to  the  Tower,  each 
rigorously  to  a  cell  of  his  own. 

It  is  high  time.  For  now  the  flame  has  caught  the 
ranks  of  the  Army  itself,  in  Oxfordshire,  in  Gloucester- 
shire, at  Salisbury,  where  head-quarters  are ;  and  rapidly 
there  is,  on  all  hands,  a  dangerous  conflagration  blazing  out. 
In  Oxfordshire,  one  Captain  Thompson,  not  known  to  us 
before,  has  burst  from  his  quarters  at  Banbury,  with  a 
Party  of  Two-Hundred,  in  these  same  days ;  has  sent  forth 
his  England's  Standard  Advanced;  insisting  passionately  on 
the  New  Chains  we  are  fettered  with ;  indjgnantly  demand- 
ing swift  perfection  of  Human  Freedom,  justice  on  the 
murderers  of  Lockyer  and  Arnald ;  —  threatening  that  if  a 
hair  of  Lilburn  and  the  five  small  Beagles  be  hurt,  he  will 
avenge  it  "  seventy-and-seven  fold."  This  Thompson's  Par- 
ty, swiftly  attacked  by  his  Colonel,  is  broken  within  the 
week ;  he  himself  escapes  with  a  few.  and  still  roves  up  and 
down.  To  join  whom,  or  to  communicate  with  Gloucester- 
shire where  help  lies,  there  has,  in  the  interim,  open  mu- 
tiny, "  above  a  Thousand  strong,"  with  subalterns,  with  a 
Cornet  Thompson  brother  of  the  Captain,  but  without  any 
leader  of  mark,  broken  out  at  Salisbury:  the  General  and 
Lieutenant-General,  with  what  force  can  be  raised,  are 
hastening  thitherward  in  all  speed.  Now  were  the  time  for 
Lieutenant-Colonel  Lilburn;  now  or  never  might  noisy 
John  do  some  considerable  injury  to  the  Cause  he  has  at 


44  THOMAS    CARLYLE. 

heart :  but  he  sits,  in  these  critical  hours,  fast  within  stone 
walls ! 

Monday,  \Uh  May.  All  Sunday  the  General  and  Lieu- 
tenant-General  marched  in  full  speed,  by  Alton,  by  Ando- 
ver,  towards  Salisbury ;  the  mutineers,  hearing  of  them, 
start  northward  for  Buckinghamshire,  then  for  Berkshire ; 
the  General  and  Lieutenant-General  turning  also  north- 
ward after  them  in  hot  chase.  The  mutineers  arrive  at 
Wantage;  make  for  Oxfordshire  by  Newbridge;  find  the 
Bridge  already  seized ;  cross  higher  up  by  swimming ;  get 
to  Burford,  very  weary,  and  "turn  out  their  horses  to 
grass  ;  Fairfax  and  Cromwell  still  following  in  hot  speed, 
a  march  of  near  fifty  miles  that  Monday.  What  boots 
it,  there  is  no  leader,  noisy  John  is  sitting  fast  within  stone 
walls  !  The  mutineers  lie  asleep  in  Burford,  their  horses 
out  at  grass ;  the  Lieutenant-General,  having  rested  at  a 
safe  distance  since  dark,  bursts  into  Burford  as  the  clocks 
are  striking  midnight.  He  has  beset  some  hundreds  of  the 
mutineers,  "  who  could  only  fire  some  shots  out  of  win- 
dows;"—  has  dissipated  the  mutiny,  trodden  down  the  Lev- 
elling Principle  out  of  English  affairs  once  more.  Here 
is  the  last  scene  of  the  business  ;  the  rigorous  Court-Martial 
having  now  sat ;  the  decimated  doomed  Mutineers  being 
placed  on  the  leads  of  the  Church  to  see. 

Thursday,  11  th  May.—  "This  day  in  Burford  Church- 
yard, Cornet  Thompson,  brother  to  Thompson  the  chief 
leader,  was  brought  to  the  place  of  execution;  and  ex- 
pressed himself  to  this  purpose,  That  it  was  just  what  did 
befall  him  ;  that  God  did  not  own  the  ways  he  went ;  that 
he  had  offended  the  General :  he  desired  the  prayers  of  the 
people ;  and  told  the  soldiers  who  were  appointed  to  shoot 
him,  that  when  he  held  out  his  hands,  they  should  do  their 
duty.  And  accordingly  he  was  immediately,  after  the  si<rn 
given,  shot  to  death.  Next  after  him  was  a  corporal, 
brought  to  the  same  place  of  execution ;  where,  looking 


CROMWELL.  45 

upon  his  fellow-mutineers,  he  set  his  back  against  the  wall ; 
and  bade  them  who  were  appointed  to  shoot,  '  Shoot ! '  and 
died  desperately.  The  third,  being  also  a  corporal,  was 
brought  to  the  same  place ;  and  without  the  least  acknow- 
ledgment of  error,  or  show  of  fear,  he  pulled  off  his  doub- 
let, standing  a  pretty  di.-tance  from  the  wall ;  and  bade  the 
soldiers  do  their  duty ;  looking  them  in  the  face  till  they 
gave  fire,  not  showing  the  least  kind  of  terror  or  fearful- 
ness  of  spirit."  So  die  the  Leveller  Corporals ;  strong  they, 
after  their  sort,  for  the  Liberties  of  England ;  resolute  to 
the  very  death.  Misguided  Corporals !  But  History,  which 
has  wept  for  a  misguided  Charles  Stuart,  and  blubbered,  in 
the  most  copious  helpless  manner,  near  two  centuries  now, 
whole  floods  of  brine,  enough  to  salt  the  Herring  fishery,  — 
will  not  refuse  these  poor  Corporals  also  her  tributary  sigh. 
With  Arnald  of  the  Rendezvous  at  Ware,  with  Lockyer  of 
the  Bull  in  Bishopsgate,  and  other  misguided  martyrs  to 
the  Liberties  of  England  then  and  since,  may  they  sleep 
well! 

Cornet  Dean  who  now  came  forward,  as  the  next  to  be 
shot,  expressed  penitence ;  got  pardon  from  the  General : 
and  there  was  no  more  shooting.  Lieutenant-General  Crom- 
well went  into  the  Church,  called  down  the  Decimated  of 
the  Mutineers ;  rebuked,  admonished ;  said,  the  General  in 
his  mercy  had  forgiven  them.  Misguided  men,  would  you 
ruin  this  Cause,  which  marvellous  Providences  have  so  con- 
firmed to  us  to  be  the  Cause  of  God  ?  Go,  repent,  and  re- 
bel no  more  lest  a  worse  thing  befall  you  !  "  They  wept," 
says  the  old  Newspaper ;  they  retired  to  the  Devizes  for  a 
time ;  were  then  restored  to  their  regiments,  and  marched 
cheerfully  for  Ireland.  Captain  Thompson,  the  Cornet's 
brother,  the  first  of  all  the  Mutineers,  he  too,  a  few  days 
afterwards,  was  fallen  in  with  in  Northamptonshire,  still 
mutinous ;  his  men  took  quarter ;  he  liimself  *  fled  to  a 
wood,"  fired  and  fenced  there,  and  again  desperately  fired, 


46  THOMAS    CARLYLE. 

declared  he  would  never  yield  alive ;  —  whereupon  "  a 
Corporal  with  seven  bullets  in  his  carbine  "  ended  Captain 
Thompson  too ;  and  this  formidable  conflagration,  to  the 
last  glimmer  of  it,  was  extinct. 

Sansculottism,  as  we  said  above,  has  to  lie  submerged  for 
almost  two  centuries  yet.  Levelling,  in  the  practical  civil 
or  military  provinces  of  English  things,  is  forbidden  to  be. 
IK  the  spiritual  provinces  it  cannot  be  forbidden ;  for  there 
it  everywhere  already  is.  It  ceases  dibbling  beans  on  St. 
George's  Hill  near  Cobham  ;  ceases  galloping  in  mutiny 
across  the  Isis  to  Burford ;  takes  into  Quakerisms,  and  king- 
doms which  are  not  of  this  world.  My  poor  friend  Dryas- 
dust lamentably  tears  his  hair  over  the  intolerance  of  that 
old  Time  to  Quakerism  and  such  like ;  if  Dryasdust  had  seen 
the  dibbling  on  St.  George's  Hill,  the  threatened  fall  of 
"  Park-pales,"  and  the  gallop  to  Burford,  he  would  reflect 
that  conviction  in  an  earnest  age  means,  not  lengthy  Spout- 
ing in  Exeter-hall,  but  rapid  silent  Practice  on  the  face  of 
the  Earth ;  and  would  perhaps  leave  his  poor  hair  alone. 


SCOTCH    PURITANISM. 

THE  faults  or  misfortunes  of  the  Scotch  People,  in  their 
Puritan  business,  are  many ;  but,  properly  their  grand  fault 
is  this,  That  they  have  produced  for  it  no  sufficiently  heroic 
man  among  them.  No  man  that  has  an  eye  to  see  beyond 
ihe  letter  and  the  rubric ;  to  discern,  across  many  consecra- 
ted rubrics  of  the  Past,  the  inarticulate  divineness  too  of  the 
Present  and  the  Future,  and  dare  all  perils  in  the  faith  of 
that !  With  Oliver  Cromwell  born  a  Scotchman,  with  a 
Hero  King  and  a  unanimous  Hero  Nation  at  his  back,  it 
might  have  been  far  otherwise.  With  Oliver  born  Scotch, 
one  sees  not  but  the  whole  world  might  have  become  Pun 


CROMWELL.  47 

tan;  might  have  struggled,  yet  a  long  while,  to  fashion 
itself  according  to  that  divine  Hebrew  Gospel,  —  to  the  ex- 
clusion of  other  Gospels  not  Hebrew,  which  also  are  divine, 
and  will  have  their  share  of  fulfilment  here  !  —  But  of  such 
issue  there  is  no  danger.  Instead  of  inspired  Olivers,  glow- 
ing with  direct  insight  and  noble  daring,  we  have  Argyles, 
Loudons,  and  narrow,  more  or  less  opaque  persons  of  the 
Pedant  species.  Committees  of  Estates,  Committees  of 
Kirks,  much  tied-up  in  formulas,  both  of  them  :  a  bigoted 
Theocracy  without  the  Inspiration  ;  which  is  a  very  hopeless 
phenomenon  indeed.  The  Scotch  People  are  all  willing, 
eager  of  heart;  asking,  Whitherward?  But  the  Leaders 
stand  aghast  at  the  new  forms  of  danger,  and  in  a  vehement 
discrepant  manner  some  calling,  Halt !  others  calling,  Back- 
ward !  others,  Forward !  —  huge  confusion  ensues.  Con- 
fusion which  will  need  an  Oliver  to  repress  it ;  to  bind  it  up 
in  tight  manacles,  if  not  otherwise ;  and  say,  "  There,  sit 
there  and  consider  thyself  a  little  ! " 

The  meaning  of  the  Scotch  Covenant  was,  That  God's 
divine  Law  of  the  Bible  should  be  put  in  practice  in  these 
Nations ;  verily  it,  and  not  the  Four  Surplices  at  Allhallow- 
tide,  or  any  Formula  of  cloth  or  sheepskin  here  or  else- 
where which  merely  pretended  to  be  it :  but  then  the  Cov- 
enant says  expressly,  there  is  to  be  a  Stuart  King  in  the 
business :  we  cannot  do  without  our  Stuart  King !  Given 
a  divine  Law  of  the  Bible  on  one  hand,  and  a  Stuart  King, 
Charles  First  or  Charles  Second,  on  the  other:  alas,  did 
History  ever  present  a  more  irreducible  case  of  equations  in 
this  world  ?  I  pity  the  poor  Scotch  Pedant  Governors,  still 
m>re  the  poor  Scotch  People,  who  had  no  other  to  follow! 
Nay,  as  for  that,  the  People  did  get  through  in  the  end, 
such  was  their  indomitable  pious  constancy,  and  other  worth 
and  fortune :  and  Presbytery  became  a  Fact  among  them, 
to  the  whole  length  possible  for  it ;  not  without  endless  re« 
Fults.  But  for  the  poor  Governors  this  irreducible  case 


48  THOMAS   CARLYLE. 

proved,  as  it  were,  fatal !  They  have  never  since,  if  we 
will  look  narrowly  at  it,  governed  Scotland,  or  even  well 
known  that  they  were  there  to  attempt  governing  it.  Once 
they  lay  on  Dunse  Hill,  "  each  Earl  with  his  Regiment  of 
Tenants  round  him,"  For  Christ's  Crown  and  Covenant; 
and  never  since  had  they  any  noble  National  act,  which  it 
was  given  them  to  do.  Growing  desperate  of  Christ's 
Crown  and  Covenant,  they,  in  the  next  generation,  when 
our  Annus  Mirabilis  arrived,  hurried  up  to  Court,  looking 
out  for  other  Crowns  and  Covenants ;  deserted  Scotland 
and  her  Cause,  somewhat  basely ;  took  to  booing  and  booing 
for  Causes  of  their  own,  unhappy  mortals  ;  —  and  Scotland 
and  all  Causes  that  were  Scotland's  have  had  to  go  on  very 
much  without  them  ever  since ! 


THE    BATTLE    OF    DUNBAR. 

THE  small  Town  of  Dunbar  stands,  high  and  windy,  look- 
ing down  over  its  herring-boats,  over  its  grim  old  Castle 
now  much  honeycombed,  —  on  one  of  those  projecting  rock 
promontories  with  which  that  shore  of  the  Frith  of  Forth  is 
niched  and  vandyked,  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach.  A  beau- 
tiful sea ;  good  land  too,  now  that  the  plougher  understands 
his  trade ;  a  grim  niched  barrier  of  whinstone  sheltering  it 
from  the  chafings  and  tumblings  of  the  big  blue  German 
Ocean.  Seaward,  St.  Abb's  Head,  of  whinstone,  bounds 
your  horizon  to  the  east,  not  very  far  off;  west,  close  by,  is 
the  deep  bay,  and  fishy  little  village  of  Belhaven:  the 
gloomy  Bass  and  other  rock-islets,  and  farther  the  Hills  of 
Fife,  and  foreshadows  of  the  Highlands,  are  visible  as  you 
look  seaward.  From  the  bottom  of  Belhaven  Bay  to  that 
of  the  next  sea-bight,  St.  Abb's  ward,  the  Town  and  its 
environs  form  a  peninsula.  Along  the  base  of  which  penin- 


CROMWELL.  49 

gala,  "  not  much  above  a  mile  and  a  half  from  sea  to  sea," 
Oliver  Cromwell's  Army,  on  Monday,  the  2d  of  Septem- 
ber, 1650,  stands  ranked,  with  its  tents  and  Town  behind 
it, —  in  very  forlorn  circumstances.  This  now  is  all  the 
ground  that  Oliver  is  lord  of  in  Scotland.  His  Ships  lie  in 
the  offing,  with  biscuit  and  transport  for  him ;  but  visible 
elsewhere  in  the  Earth  no  help. 

Landward,  as  you  look  from  the  Town  of  Dunbar  there 
rises,  some  short  mile  off,  a  dusky  continent  of  barren  heath 
Hills ;  the  Lammermoor,  where  only  mountain-sheep  can 
be  at  home.  The  crossing  of  which,  by  any  of  its  boggy 
passes,  and  brawling  stream-courses,  no  Army,  hardly  a 
solitary  Scotch  Packman  could  attempt,  in  such  weather. 
To  the  edge  of  these  Lammermoor  Heights,  David  Lesley 
has  betaken  himself;  lies  now  along  the  outmost  spur  of 
them,  —  a  long  Hill  of  considerable  height,  which  the  Dun- 
bar  people  call  the  Dun,  Doon,  or  sometimes  for  fashion's 
sake  the  Down,  adding  to  it  the  Teutonic  hill  likewise, 
though  Dun  itself  in  old  Celtic  signifies  Hill.  On  this 
Doon  Hill  lies  David  Lesley,  with  the  victorious  Scotch 
Army,  upwards  of  Twenty  thousand  strong ;  with  the  Com- 
mittees of  Kirk  and  Estates,  the  chief  Dignitaries  of  the 
Country,  and  in  fact  the  flower  of  what  the  pure  Covenant 
in  this  the  Twelfth  year  of  its  existence  can  still  bring 
forth.  There  lies  he,  since  Sunday  night,  on  the  top  and 
slope  of  this  Doon  Hill,  with  the  impassable  heath  conti- 
nents behind  him :  embraces,  as  within  outspread  tiger- 
claws,  the  base-line  of  Oliver's  Dunbar  Peninsula ;  waiting 
what  Oliver  will  do.  Cockburnspath  with  its  ravines  has 
been  seized  on  Oliver's  left,  and  made  impassable ;  behind 
Oliver  is  the  sea ;  in  front  of  him  Lesley,  Doon  Hill,  and 
the  heath-continent  of  Lammermoor.  Lesley's  force  is  of 
Three-and-twenty  thousand,  in  spirits  as  of  men  chasing: 
Oliver's  about  half  as  many,  in  spirits  as  of  men  chased. 
What  is  to  become  of  Oliver  ?  .  .  .  . 

3  D 


50  THOMAS   CARLYLE. 

The  base  of  Oliver's  Dunbar  Peninsula,  as  we  have 
called  it  (or  Dunbar-  Pinfold,  where  ho  is  now  hemmed  in, 
upon  "an  entanglement  very  difficult"),  extends  from  Bel- 
haven  Bay  on  his  right,  to  Brocksmouth  House  on  his  left; 
"  about  a  mile  and  a  half  from  sea  to  sea : "  Brocksmouth 
House,  the  Earl  (now  Duke)  of  Roxburgh's  mansion, 
which  still  stands  there,  his  soldiers  now  occupy  as  their 
extreme  post  on  the  left.  As  its  name  indicates,  it  is  the 
mouth  or  issue  of  a  small  Rivulet,  or  Burn  called  Brock, 
BrocJcsburn  ;  which,  springing  from  the  Lammermoor,  and 
skirting  David  Lesley's  Doon  Hill,  finds  its  egress  here, 
into  the  sea.  The  reader  who  would  form  an  image'  to 
himself  of  the  great  Tuesday,  3d  of  September,  1650,  at 
Dunbar,  must  note  well  this  little  Burn.  It  runs  in  a  deep 
grassy  glen,  which  the  South-country  Officers  in  those  old 
Pamphlets  describe  as  a  "deep  ditch,  forty  feet  in  depth, 
and  about  as  many  in  width,"  —  ditch  dug  out  by  the  little 
Brook  itself,  and  carpeted  with  greensward,  in  the  course  of 
long  thousands  of  years.  It  runs  pretty  close  by  the  foot  of 
Doon  Hill ;  forms,  from  this  point  to  the  sea,  the  boundar^ 
of  Oliver's  position:  his  force  is  arranged  in  battle-order 
along  the  left  bank  of  this  Brocksburn,  and  its  grassy  glen ; 
he  is  busied  all  Monday,  he  and  his  Officers,  in  ranking 
them  there.  "  Before  sunrise  on  Monday "  Lesley  sent 
down  his  horse  from  the  Hill-top,  to  occupy  the  other  side 
of  this  Brook;  "about  four  in  the  afternoon,"  his  train 
came  down,  his  whole  Army  gradually  came  down  ;  and 
they  now  are  ranking  themselves  on  the  opposite  side  of 
Brocksburn,  —  on  rather  narrow  ground;  cornfields,  but 
swiftly  sloping  upwards  to  the  steep  of  Doon  Hill.  This 
goes  on,  in  the  wild  showers  and  winds  of  Monday,  2nd 
September,  1650,  on  both  sides  of  the  Rivulet  of  Brock. 
Whoever  will  begin  the  attack,  must  get  across  this  Brook 
nnd  its  glen  first ;  a  thing  of  much  disadvantage. 

Behind  Oliver's  ranks,  between  him  and  Dunbar,  stand 


CROMWELL.  51 

his  tents;  sprinkled  up  and  down,  by  battalions,  over  the 
face  of  this  "  Peninsula " ;  which  is  a  low  though  very  un- 
even tract  of  ground ;  now  in  our  time  all  yellow  with 
wheat  and  barley  in  the  autumn  season,  but  at  that  date 
only  partially  tilled,  —  describable  by  Yorkshire  Hodgson 
as  a  place  of  plashes  and  rough  bent-grass ;  terribly  beaten 
by  showery  winds  that  day,  so  that  your  tent  will  hardly 
stand.  There  was  then  but  one  Farm-house  on  this  tract, 
where  now  are  not  a  few :  thither  were  Oliver's  Cannon 
sent  this  morning;  they  had  at  first  been  lodged  "in  the 
Church,"  an  edifice  standing  then  as  now  somewhat  apart, 

at  the  south  end  of  Dunbar 

And  now  farther,  on  the  great  scale,  we  are  to  remark 
very  specially  that  there  is  just  one  other  "  pass  "  across  the 
Brocksburn ;  and  this  is  precisely  where  the  London  road 
now  crosses  it;  about  a  mile  east  from  the  former  pass, 
and  perhaps  two  gunshots  west  from  Brocksmouth  House. 
There  the  great  road  then  as  now  crosses  the  Burn  of 
Brock;  the  steep  grassy  glen,  or  "broad  ditch  forty  feet 
deep,"  flattening  itself  out  here  once  more  into  a  passable 
slope :  passable,  but  still  steep  on  the  southern  or  Lesley 
side,  still  mounting  up  there,  with  considerable  acclivity,  into 
a  high  table- ground,  out  of  which  the  Boon  Hill,  as  outskirt 
of  the  Larnmermoor,  a  short  mile  to  your  right,  gradually 
gathers  itself.  There,  at  this  "pass,"  on  and  above  the 
present  London  road,  as  you  discover  after  long  dreary  dim 
examining,  took  place  the  brunt  or  essential  agony  of  the 
Battle  of  Dunbar  long  ago.  Read  in  the  extinct  old  Pam- 
phlets, and  ever  again  obstinately  read,  till  some  light  arise 
in  them,  look  even  with  unmilitary  eyes  at  the  ground  as  it 
now  is,  you  do  at  least  obtain  small  glimmerings  of  distinct 
features  here  and  there,  —  which  gradually  coalesce  into  a 
kind  of  image  for  you ;  and  some  spectrum  of  the  Fact  be- 
comes visible ;  rises  veritable,  face  to  face  on  you,  grim  and 
sad  in  the  depths  of  the  old  dead  Time.  Yes,  my  travelling 


52  THOMAS    CARLYLE. 

friends,  vehiculating  in  gigs  or  otherwise  over  that  piece  of 
London  road,  you  may  say  to  yourselves,  Here  without 
monument  is  the  grave  of  a  valiant  thing  which  was  done 
under  the  Sun ;  the  footprint  of  a  Hero,  not  yet  quite  un- 
distinguishable,  is  here ! 

"  The  Lord  General  about  four  o'clock,"  say  the  old  Pam- 
phlets, "  went  into  the  Town  to  take  some  refreshment,"  a 
hasty  late  dinner,  or  early  supper,  whichever  we  may  call 
it;  "and  very  soon  returned  back,"  —  having  written  Sir 
Arthur's  Letter,  I  think,  in  the  interim.  Coursing  about 
the  field,  with  enough  of  things  to  order;  walking  at  last 
with  Lambert  in  the  Park  or  Garden  of  Brocksmouth 
House,  he  discerns  that  Lesley  is  astir  on  the  Hillside; 
altering  his  position  somewhat.  That  Lesley  in  fact  is 
coming  wholly  down  to  the  basis  of  the  Hill,  where  his 
horse  had  been  since  sunrise :  coming  wholly  down  to  the 
edge  of.  the  Brook  and  glen,  among  the  sloping  harvest- 
fields  there ;  and  also  is  bringing  up  his  left  wing  of  horse, 
most  part  of  it,  towards  his  right ;  edging  himself,  "  shog- 
ging,"  as  Oliver  calls  it,  his  whole  line  more  and  more  to 
the  right!  His  meaning  is,  to  get  hold  of  Brocksmouth 
House  and  the  pass  of  the  Brook  there ;  after  which  it  will 
be  free  to  him  to  attack  us  when  he  will !  Lesley  in  feet 
considered,  or  at  least  the  Committee  of  Estates  and  Kirk 
consider,  that  Oliver  is  lost;  that,  on  the  whole,  he  must 
not  be  left  to  retreat,  but  must  be  attacked  and  annihilated 
here.  A  vague  story,  due  to  Bishop  Burnet,  the  watery 
source  of  many  such,  still  circulates  about  the  world,  That 
it  was  the  Kirk  Committee  who  forced  Lesley  down  against 
his  will ;  that  Oliver,  at  sight  of  it,  exclaimed,  "  The  Lord 
hath  delivered,"  &c. :  which  nobody  is  in  the  least  bound  to 
believe.  It  appears,  from  other  quarters,  that  Lesley  ivas 
advised  or  sanctioned  in  this  attempt  by  the  Committee  of 
Estates  and  Kirk,  but  also  that  he  was  by  no  means  hard  to 
advise ;  that,  in  fact,  lying  on  the  top  of  Doon  Hill,  shelter- 


CROMWELL.  53 

less  in  such  weather,  was  no  operation  to  spin  out  beyond 
necessity ;  and  that  if  anybody  pressed  too  much  upon  him 
with  advice  to  come  down  and  fight,  it  was  likeliest  to  be 
Royalist  Civil  Dignitaries,  who  had  plagued  him  with  their 
cavillings  at  his  cunctations,  at  his  "  secret  fellow-feeling  for 
the  Sectarians  and  Regicides,"  ever  since  this  "War  began. 
The  poor  Scotch  Clergy  have  enough  of  their  own  to  an- 
swer for  in  this  business;  let  every  back  bear  the  burden 
that  belongs  to  it  In  a  word,  Lesley  descends,  has  been  de- 
scending all  day,  and  "  shogs  "  himself  to  the  right,  urged  I 
believe,  by  manifold  counsel,  and  by  the  nature  of  the  case ; 
and,  what  is  equally  important  for  us,  Oliver  sees  him,  and 
sees  through  him,  in  this  movement  of  his. 

At  sight  of  this  movement,  Oliver  suggests  to  Lambert 
standing  by  him,  Does  it  not  give  us  an  advantage,  if  we, 
instead  of  him,  like  to  begin  the  attack  ?  Here  is  the 
Enemy's  right  wing  coming  out  to  the  open  space,  free  to 
be  attacked  on  any  side ;  and  the  main-battle  hampered  in 
narrow  sloping  ground,  between  Doon  Hill  and  the  Brook, 
has  no  room  to  manoeuvre  or  assist :  beat  this  right  wing 
where  it  now  stands ;  taker  it  in  flank  and  front  with  an 
overpowering  force,  —  it  is  driven  upon  its  own  main-battle, 
the  whole  Army  is  beaten  ?  Lambert  eagerly  assents  "  had 
meant  to  say  the  same  thing. "  Monk,  who  comes  up  at 
the  moment,  likewise  assents;  as  the  other  Officers  do, 
when  the  case  is  set  before  them.  It  is  the  plan  resolved 
upon  for  battle.  The  attack  shall  begin  to-morrow  before 
dawn. 

And  so  the  soldiers  stand  to  their  arms,  or  lie  within  in- 
stant reach  of  their  arms,  all  night ;  being  upon  an  engage- 
ment very  difficult  indeed.  The  night  is  wild  and  wet;  — 
2d  of  September  means  12th  by  our  calendar:  the  Harvest 
Moon  wades  deep  among  clouds  of  sleet  and  hail.  Who- 
ever has  a  heart  for  prayer,  let  him  pray  now,  for  the 
wrestle  of  death  is  at  hand.  Pray,  —  and  withal  keep  hia 


54  THOMAS   CARLYLF 

powder  dry !  And  be  ready  for  extremities,  and  quit  him 
self  like  a  man !  Thus  they  pass  the  night ;  making  that 
Duubar  Peninsula  and  Brock  Rivulet  long  memorable  to 
me.  We  English  have  some  tents;  the  Scots  have  none. 
The  hoarse  sea  moans  bodeful,  swinging  low  and  heavy 
against  these  whinstone  bays  ;  the  sea  and  the  tempests  are 
abroad,  all  else  asleep  but  we,  —  and  there  is  One  that  rides 
on  the  wings  of  the  wind. 

Towards  three  in  the  morning,  the  Scotch  foot,  by  order 
of  a  Major- General,  say  some,  extinguish  their  matches,  all 
but  two  in  a  company ;  cower  under  the  corn-shocks,  seek- 
ing some  imperfect  shelter  and  sleep.  Be  wakeful,  ye  Eng- 
lish ;  watch,  and  pray,  and  keep  your  powder  dry.  About 
four  o'clock  comes  order  to  my  pudding-headed  Yorkshire 
friend,  that  his  regiment  must  mount  and  march  straight- 
way ;  his  and  various  other  regiments  march,  pouring  swift- 
ly to  the  left  to  Brocksmouth  House,  to  the  Pass  over  the 
Brock.  With  overpowering  force  let  us  storm  the  Scots 
right  wing  there;  beat  that,  and  all  is  beaten.  Major 
Hodgson,  riding  along,  heard,  he  says,  "  a  Cornet  praying 
in  the  night";  a  company  of  poor  men,  I  think,  making 
worship  there,  under  the  void  Heaven,  before  battle  joined : 
Major  Hodgson,  giving  his  charge  to  a  brother  Officer, 
turned  aside  to  listen  for  a  minute,  and  worship  and  pray 
along  with  them ;  haply  his  last  prayer  on  this  Earth,  as  it 
might  prove  to  be.  But  no  ;  this  Cornet  prayed  with  such 
effusion  as  was  wonderful ;  and  imparted  strength  to  my 
Yorkshire  friend,  who  strengthened  his  men  by  telling  them 
of  it.  And  the  Heavens,  in  their  mercy,  I  think,  have 
opened  us  a  way  of  deliverance  !  —  The  Moon  gleams  out, 
hard  and  blue,  riding  among  hail-clouds ;  and  over  St.  Abb's 
Head  a  streak  of  dawn  is  rising. 

And  now  is  the  hour  when  the  attack  should  be,  and  no 
Lambert  is  yet  here,  he  is  ordering  the  line  far  to  the  right 
yet ;  and  Oliver  occasionally,  in  Hodgson's  hearing,  is  impa 


CROMWELL.  55 

taent  for  him.  The  Scots  too,  on  this  wing,  are  awake ; 
thinking  to  surprise  us  ;  there  is  their  trumpet  sounding,  we 
heard  it  once ;  and  Lambert,  who  was  to  lead  the  attack,  is 
not  here.  The  Lord  General  is  impatient ;  —  behold  Lam- 
bert at  last!  The  trumpets  pea1,  shattering  with  fierce 
clangor  Night's  silence ;  the  cannons  awaken  along  all  the 
line :  "  The  Lord  of  Hosts  !  The  Lord  of  Hosts  !  "  On, 
my  brave  ones,  on  ! 

The  dispute  "  on  this  right  wing,  was  hot  and  stiff  for 
three  quarters  of  an  hour. "  Plenty  of  fire,  from  field- 
pieces,  snaphances,  matchlocks,  entertained  the  Scotch  main- 
battle  across  the  Brock ;  —  poo"  stiffened  men,  roused  from 
the  corn-shocks  with  their  matches  all  out!  But  here  on 
the  right,  their  horse  "  with  lancers  in  the  front  rank," 
charge  desperately ;  drive  us  hick  across  the  hollow  of  the 
Rivulet ;  back  a  little  ;  but  the  Lord  gives  us  courage,  and 
we  storm  home  again,  horse  and  foot,  upon  them,  with  a 
shock  like  tornado  tempests ;  break  them,  beat  them,  drive 
them  all  adrift.  "  Sorae  fled  towards  Copperspath,  but  most 
across  their  own  foot. "  Their  own  poor  foot,  whose 
matches  were  hard'y  well  alight  yet !  Poor  men,  it  was  a 
terrible  awakeniij?  for  them :  field-pieces  and  charge  of  foot 
across  the  Brocksburn :  and  now  here  is  their  own  horse  in 
mad  panic,  trampling  them  to  death.  Above  Three-thou- 
sand killed  upon  the  place :  •'  I  never  saw  such  a  charge  of 
foot  and  horse,"  says  one  ;  nor  did  I.  Oliver  was  still  near 
to  Yorkshire  Hodgson,  when  the  shock  succeeded.  Hodg- 
son heard  him  say :  "  They  run !  I  profess  they  run  !  " 
And  over  St.  Abb's  Head,  and  the  German  Ocean,  just 
then,  burst  the  first  gleam  of  the  level  sun  upon  us,  "  and  I 
heard  Nol  say,  in  the  words  of  the  Psalmist,  '  Let  God  arise, 
let  His  enemies  be  scattered,' "  —  or  in  Rous's  metre, 

Let  God  arise,  and  scattered 

Let  all  his  enemies  be ; 
And  let  all  those  that  do  him  hate 

Before  his  presence  flee  1 


56  THOMAS    CARLYLE. 

Even  so.  The  Scotch  Army  is  shivered  to  utter  ruin ; 
rushes  in  tumultuous  wreck,  hither,  thither;  to  Belhaven, 
or,  in  their  distraction,  even  to  Dunbar ;  the  chase  goes  as 
far  as  Haddington ;  led  by  Hacker.  "  The  Lord  General 
made  a  halt,"  says  Hodgson,  "  and  sang  the  Hundred-and- 
seventeenth  Psalm,"  till  our  horse  could  gather  for  the 
chase.  Hundred-and-seventeenth  Psalm,  at  the  foot  of  the 
Doon  Hill ;  there  we  uplift  it,  to  the  tune  of  Bangor,  or 
some  still  higher  score,  and  roll  it  strong  and  great  against 
the  sky : 

O  give  ye  praise  unto  the  Lord, 

All  nati-ons  that  be ; 
Likewise  ye  people  all  accord 
His  name  to  magnify  ! 

For  great  to-us-ward  ever  are 

His  loving  kindnesses ; 
His  truth  endures  for  evermore : 

The  Lord,  0  do  ye  bless ! 

And  now  to  the  chase  again. 

The  prisoners  are  Ten-thousand,  —  all  the  foot  in  a  mass. 
*  *  *  Such  is  Dunbar  Battle ;  which  might  almost  be 
called  Dunbar  Drove,  for  it  was  a  frightful  rout.  Brought 
on  by  miscalculation;  misunderstanding  of  the  difference 
between  substances  and  semblances;  —  by  mismanagement 
and  the  chance  of  war. 


DISMISSAL    OF    THE    RUMP. 

Wednesday,  20th  April,  1 653.  —  My  Lord  General  is  in 
his  reception-room  this  morning,  in  plain  black  clothes  and 
gray  worsted  stockings;  he,  with  many  Officers:  but  few 
Members  have  yet  come,  though  punctual  Bulstrode  and 
certain  others  are  there.  Some  waiting  there  is ;  some  im- 


CROMWELL.  57 

piitience  that  the  Members  would  come.  The  Members  do 
not  come :  instead  of  Members,  comes  a  notice  that  they 
are  busy  getting  on  with  their  Bill  [for  Parliamentary  Re- 
form] in  the  House,  hurrying  it  double  quick  through  all 
the  stages.  Possible,  New  message  that  it  will  be  Law  in 
a  little  while,  if  no  interposition  take  place !  Bulstrode 
hastens  off  to  the  House :  my  Lord  General,  at  first  incred- 
ulous, does  now  also  hasten  off,  —  nay  orders  that  a  com- 
pany of  Musketeers  of  his  own  regiment  attend  him.  Hast- 
ens off,  with  a  very  high  expression  of  countenance,  I  think ; 
saying  or  feeling :  Who  would  have  believed  it  of  them  ? 
"  It  is  not  honest ;  yea  it  is  contrary  to  common  honesty  ! "  — 
My  Lord  General,  the  big  hour  is  come ! 

Young  Colonel  Sidney,  the  celebrated  Algernon,  sat  in 
the  House  this  morning:  a  House  of  some  Fifty-three.  Al- 
gernon has  left  distinct  note  of  the  affair ;  less  distinct  we 
have  from  Bulstrode,  who  was  also  there,  who  seems  in 
some  points  to  be  even  wilfully  wrong.  Solid  Ludlow  was 
far  off  in  Ireland,  but  gathered  many  details  in  after-years; 
and  faithfully  wrote  them  down,  in  the  unappeasable  indig- 
nation of  his  heart.  Combining  these  three  originals,  we 
have,  after  various  perusals  and  collations  and  consider- 
ations, obtained  the  following  authentic,  moderately  con- 
ceivable account. 

"The  Parliament  sitting  as  usual,  and  being  in  debate 
upon  the  Bill,  with  the  amendments,  which  it  was  thought 
would  have  been  passed  that  day,  the  Lord  General  Crom- 
well came  into  the  House,  clad  in  plain  black  clothes  and 
gray  worsted-stockings,  and  sat  down,  as  he  used  to  do,  in 
an  ordinary  place."  For  some  time  he  listens  to  this  in- 
teresting debate  on  the  Bill ;  beckoning  once  to  Harrison, 
who  came  over  to  him,  and  answered  dubitatingly.  Where- 
upon the  Lord  General  sat  still,  for  about  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  longer.  But  now  the  question  being  to  be  put,  That 
this  Bill  do  now  pass,  he  beckons  again  to  Harrison,  says, 
3* 


58  THOMAS    CARLYLE. 

"  This  is  the  time  I  must  do  it !  "  —  and  so  "  rose  up,  put  off 
his  hat,  and  spake.  At  the  first,  and  for  a  good  while,  he 
spake  to  the  commendation  of  the  Parliament  for  their  pains 
and  care  of  the  public  good  ;  but  afterwards  he  changed  his 
style,  toui  them  of  their  injustice,  delays  of  justice,  self- 
interest,  and  other  faults,"  —  rising  higher  and  higher,  into 
a  very  aggravated  style  indeed.  An  honorable  Member, 
Sir  Peter  Wentworth  by  name,  not  known  to  my  readers, 
and  by  me  better  known  than  trusted,  rises  to  order,  as  we 
phrase  it;  says,  "It  is  a  strange  language  this;  unusual 
within  the  walls  of  Parliament  this  !  And  from  a  trusted 
servant  too ;  and  one  whom  we  have  so  highly  honored  ; 
and  one  —  "  "  Come,  come !  "  exclaims  my  Lord  General, 
in  a  very  high  key.  "  We  have  had  enough  of  this,"  — 
and  in  fact  my  Lord  General,  now  blazing  all  up  into  clear 
conflagration,  exclaims,  *•  I  will  put  an  end  to  your  prating," 
and  steps  forth  into  the  floor  of  the  House,  and  "clapping 
on  his  hat,"  and  occasionally  "stamping  the  floor  with  his 
feet,"  begins  a  discourse  which  no  man  can  report!  He 
BayS  —  Heavens !  he  is  heard  saying :  "  It  is  not  fit  that  you 
should  sit  here  any  longer !  You  have  sat  too  long  here  for 
any  good  you  have  been  doing  lately.  You  shall  now  give 
place  to  better  men !  —  Call  them  in ! "  adds  he  briefly,  to 
Harrison,  in  word  of  command :  "  and  some  twenty  or 
thirty  "  grim  musketeers  enter,  with  bullets  in  their  snap- 
hances  ;  grimly  prompt  for  orders ;  and  stand  in  some  atti- 
tude of  Carry-arms  there.  Veteran  men  :  men  of  might 
and  men  of  war,  their  faces  are  as  the  faces  of  lions,  and 
their  feet  are  swift  as  the  roes  upon  the  mountains  :  —  not 
beautiful  to  honorable  gentlemen  at  this  moment. 

"  You  call  yourselves  a  Parliament,"  continues  my  Lord 
General,  in  clear  blaze  of  conflagration :  "  you  are  no  Par- 
liament ;  I  say,  you  are  no  Parliament !  some  of  you  are 
drunkards,"  —  and  his  eye  flashes  on  poor  Mr  Chaloner,  aa 
official  man  of  some  value,  addicted  to  the  bottle ;  "  some  of 


CROMWELL.  59 

you  arc ,"  and  he  glares  into  Harry  Marten,  and  the 

poor  Sir  Peter,  who  rose  to  order,  lewd  livers  both  ;  "living 
in  open  contempt  of  God's  Commandments.  Following 
your  own  greedy  appetites,  and  the  Devil's  Command- 
ments. 4  Corrupt,  unjust  persons.' "  "  And  here,  I  think, 
he  glanced  at  Sir  Bulstrode  Whitlocke,  one  of  the  Com- 
missioners of  the  Great  Seal,  giving  him  and  others  very 
sharp  language,  though  he  named  them  not " :  "  Corrupt, 
unjust  persons  ;  scandalous  to  the  profession  of  the  Gospel : 
how  can  you  be  a  Parliament  for  God's  People  ?  Depart, 
I  say ;  and  let  us  have  done  with  you.  In  the  name  of 
God,  — go!" 

The  House  is  of  course  all  on  its  feet,  —  uncertain  almost 
whether  not  on  its  head :  such  a  scene  as  was  never  seen 
before  in  any  House  of  Commons.  History  reports  with  a 
shudder  that  my  Lord  General,  lifting  the  sacred  Mace 
itself,  said,  "  What  shall  we  do  with  this  bawble  ?  Take  it 
away  ! ''  —  and  gave  it  to  a  musketeer.  And  now,  "  Fetch 
him  do\vn  J "  says  he  to  Harrison,  flashing  on  the  Speaker. 
Speaker  Lenthall,  more  an  ancient  Roman  than  anything 
else,  declares,  He  will  not  come  till  forced.  "Sir,"  said 
Harrison,  •'  I  will  lend  you  a  hand  " ;  —  on  which  Speaker 
Lenthall  came  down,  and  gloomily  vanished.  They  all 
vanished  ;  flooding  gloomily,  clamorously  out,  to  their  ulte- 
rior business,  and  respective  places  of  abode  :  the  Long 
Parliament  is  dissolved  !  "  '  It 's  you,  that  have  forced  me  to 
this,'  exclaims  my  Lord  General :  i  I  have  sought  the  Lord 
night  and  day,  that  He  would  rather  slay  me  than  put  me 
upon  the  doing  of  this  work.'  At  their  going  out,  some  say, 
the  Lord  General  said  to  young  Sir  Harry  Vane,  calling 
him  by  his  name,  that  he  might  have  prevented  this ;  but 
that  he  was  a  juggler,  and  had  not  common  honesty.  'O, 
Sir  Harry  Vane,  thou  with  thy  subtle  casuistries,  and  ab- 
struse hair-splittings,  thou  art  other  than  a  good  one,  I 
think  !  The  Lord  deliver  thee  from  me,  Sir  Harry  Vane  !' 


60  THOMAS    CARLYLE. 

All  being  gone  out,  the  door  of  the  House  was  locked,  and 
the  Key  with  the  Mace,  as  I  heard,  was  carried  away  by 
Colonel  Otley  " ;  —  and  it  is  all  over,  and  the  unspeakable 
Catastrophe  has  come,  and  remains. 


THE    BAREBONES    PARLIAMENT. 

CONCERNING  this  Puritan  Convention  of  the  Notables, 
which  in  English  History  is  called  the  Little  Parliament, 
and  derisively  Barebones's  Parliament,  we  have  not  much 
more  to  say.  They  are,  if  by  no  means  the  remarkablest 
Assembly,  yet  the  Assembly  for  the  remarkablest  purpose 
who  have  ever  met  in  the  Modern  World.  The  business  is, 
No  less  than  introducing  of  the  Christian  Religion  into  real 
practice  in  the  Social  Affairs  of  this  Nation.  Christiad  Re- 
ligion, Scriptures  of  the  Old  and  New  Testaments :  such, 
for  many  hundred  years,  has  been  the  universal  solemnly 
recognized  Theory  of  all  men's  Affairs ;  Theory  sent  down 
out  of  Heaven  itself;  but  the  question  is  now  that  of  reduc- 
ing it  to  Practice  in  said  Affairs ;  —  a  most  noble,  surely, 
and  most  necessary  attempt;  which  should  not  have  been 
put  off  so  long  in  this  Nation !  We  have  conquered  the  En- 
emies of  Christ;  let  us  now,  in  real  practical  earnest,  set 
about  doing  the  Commandments  of  Christ,  now  that  there  is 
free  room  for  us  !  Such  was  the  purpose  of  this  Puritan  As- 
sembly of  the  Notables,  which  History  calls  the  Little  Par- 
liament, or  derisively  Harebones's  Parliament. 

It  is  well  known  they  failed :  to  us,  alas  !  it  is  too  evident 
they  could  not  but  fail.  Fearful  impediments  lay  against 
that  effort  of  theirs  ;  the  sluggishness,  the  slavish  half-and- 
halfness,  the  greediness,  the  cowardice,  and  general  opacity 
and  falsity  of  some  ten  million  men  against  it;  alas,  the 
whole  world,  and  what  we  call  the  Devil  and  all  his  angels, 


CROMWELL.  61 

against  it !  Considerable  angels,  human  and  other  ;  most  ex- 
tensive arrangements,  investments  to  be  sold  off  at  a  tre- 
mendous sacrifice  ;  in  general  the  entire  set  of  luggage- traps 
and  very  extensive  stock  of  merchant-goods  and  real  and 
floating  property,  amassed  by  that  assiduous  Entity  above- 
mentioned,  for  a  thousand  years  or  more !  For  these,  and 
also  for  other  obstructions,  it  could  not  take  effect  at  that 
time ;  and  the  Little  Parliament  became  a  Barebones's  Par- 
liament,  and  had  to  go  its  ways  again. 


CONSPIRACIES. 

To  see  a  little  what  kind  of  England  it  was,  and  what 
kind  of  incipient  Protectorate  it  was,  take,  as  usual,  the  fol- 
lowing small  and  few  fractions  of  Authenticity  of  various 
complexion,  fished  from  the  doubtful  slumber-lakes,  and 
dust  vortexes,  and  hang  them  out  at  their  places  in  the  void 
night  of  things.  They  are  not  very  luminous ;  but  if  they 
were  well  let  alone,  and  the  positively  tenebrific  were  well 
forgotten,  they  might  assist  our  imaginations  in  some  slight 
measure. 

Sunday,  18th  December,  1653.  A  certain  loud-tongued, 
loud-minded  Mr.  Feak,  of  Anabaptist-Leveller  persuasion, 
with  a  Colleague  seemingly  Welsh,  named  Povvel,  have  a 
Preaching-Establishment,  this  good  while  past  in  Black- 
Mars  ;  a  Preaching-Establishment  every  Sunday,  which  on 
Monday  evening  becomes  a  National-Charter  Convention 
as  we  should  now  call  it ;  there  Feak,  Powel,  and  Company 
are  in  the  habit  of  vomiting  forth  from  their  own  inner-man, 
into  other  inner-men  greedy  of  such  pabulum,  a  very  flamy 
fuliginous  set  of  doctrines,  —  such  as  the  human  mind, 
superadding  Anabaptistry  to  Sansculottism,  can  make  some 
attempt  to  conceive.  Sunday,  the  18th,  which  is  two  days 


62  THOMAS   CARLYLE. 

after  the  Lord  Protector's  Installation,  this  Feak-Powel 
Meeting  was  unusually  large  ;  the  Feak-Powel  inner-man 
unusually  charged.  Elements  of  soot  and  fire  really  copi- 
ous :  fuliginous  flamy  in  a  very  high  degree  !  At  a  time, 
too,  when  all  Doctrine  does  not  satisfy  itself  with  spouting, 
but  longs  to  become  instant  Action.  "  Go  and  tell  your 
Protector,"  said  the  Anabaptist  Prophet,  "  that  he  has  de- 
ceived the  Lord's  People  ;  that  he  is  a  perjured  villain,"  — 
"  will  not  reign  long,"  or  I  am  deceived :  "  will  end  worse 
than  the  last  Protector  did,"  Protector  Somerset  who  died 
on  the  scaffold,  or  the  tyrant  Crooked  Richard  himself! 
Say  I  said  it !  A  very  foul  chimney  indeed,  here  got  on 
fire.  And  "Major  General  Harrison,  the  most  eminent 
man  of  the  Anabaptist  Party,  being  consulted  whether 
he  would  own  the  new  Protectoral  Government,  answered 
frankly,  No";  was  thereupon  ordered  to  retire  home  to 
Staffordshire,  and  keep  quiet. 

Does  the  reader  bethink  him  of  those  old  Leveller  Cor- 
porals at  Burford,  and  Diggers  at  St.  George's  Hill  five 
years  ago;  of  Quakerisms,  Calvinistic  Sansculottisms,  and 
one  of  the  strangest  Spiritual  Developments  ever  seen  in 
any  country  ?  The  reader  sees  here  one  foul  chimney  on 
fire,  the  Feak-Powel  chimney  in  Blackfriars ;  and  must  con- 
sider for  himself  what  masses  of  combustible  materials,  no- 
ble fuel  and  base  soot  and  smoky  explosive  fire-damp,  in 
the  general  English  Household  it  communicates  with !  Re- 
publicans Proper,  of  the  Long  Parliament;  Republican 
Fifth -Monarchists  of  the  Little  Parliament;  the  solid  Lud- 
lows,  the  fervent  Harrisons:  from  Harry  Vane  down  to 
Christopher  Feak,  all  manner  of  Republicans  find  Cromwell 
unforgivable.  To  the  Harrison-and-Feak  species  Kingship 
in  every  sort,  and  government  of  man  by  man,  is  carnal, 
expressly  contrary  to  various  Gospel  Scriptures.  Very  hor- 
rible for  a  man  to  think  of  governing  men  ;  whether  he 
ought  even  to  govern  cattle,  and  drive  them  to  field  and  to 


CROMWELL.  63 

needful  penfold,  "  except  in  the  way  of  love  and  persua- 
sion," seems  doubtful  to  me !  But  fancy  a  reign  of  Christ 
and  his  Saints ;  Christ  and  his  Saints  just  about  to  come, 
—  had  not  Oliver  Cromwell  stept  in  and  prevented  it! 
The  reader  discerns  combustabilities  enough ;  conflagrations, 
plots,  stubborn  disaffectious  and  confusions,  on  the  Republi- 
can and  Republican-Anabaptist  side  of  things.  It  is  the 
first  Plot-department  which  my  Lord  Protector  will  have  to 
deal  with  all  his  life  long.  This  he  must  wisely  damp  down, 
as  he  may.  Wisely:  for  he  knows  what  is  noble  in  the 
matter,  and  what  is  base  in  it ;  and  would  not  sweep  the 
fuel  and  the  soot  both  out  of  doors  at  once. 

Tuesday,  l±th  February,  1653-4.  "At  the  Ship-Tavern 
in  the  Old  Bailey,  kept  by  Mr.  Thomas  Amps,"  we  come 
upon  the  second  life-long  Plot-department:  Eleven  trucu- 
lent, rather  threadbare  persons,  sitting  over  small  drink 
there,  on  the  Tuesday  night,  considering  how  the  Protector 
might  be  assassinated.  Poor  broken  Royalist  men  ;  payless 
old  Captains,  most  of  them,  or  such  like  ;  with  their  steeple- 
hats  worn  very  brown,  and  jack-boots  slit,  —  and  projects 
that  cannot  be  executed,  Mr.  Amps  knows  nothing  of 
them,  except  that  they  came  to  him  to  drink  ;  nor  do  we. 
Probe  them  -with  questions ;  clap  them  in  the  Tower  for  a 
while  ;  Guilty,  poor  knaves :  but  not  worth  hanging  :  —  dis- 
appear again  into  the  general  mass  of  Royalist  Plotting, 
and  ferment  there. 

The  Royalists  have  lain  quiet  ever  since  Worcester,  wait- 
ing what  issue  matters  would  take.  Dangerous  to  meddle 
with  a  Rump  Parliament ;  or  other  steadily  regimented 
thing ;  safer  if  you  can  find  it  fallen  out  of  rank ;  hope- 
fullest  of  all  when  it  collects  itself  into  a  Single  Head. 
The  Royalists  judge,  with  some  reason,  that  if  they  could 
kill  Oliver  Protector,  this  Commonwealth  were  much  en- 
dangered. In  these  Easter  weeks,  too,  or  Whitsuii  weeks, 
there  comes  "from  our  Court,"  (Charles  Stuart's  Court,) 


64  THOMAS    CARLYLE. 

"  at  Paris,"  great  encouragement  to  all  men  of  spirit  in 
straitened  circumstances,  A  Royal  Proclamation  "  By  the 
King,"  drawn  up,  say  some,  by  Secretary  Clarendon  ;  set- 
ting forth  that  "  Whereas  a  certain  base,  mechanic  fellow, 
by  name  Oliver  Cromwell,  has  usurped  our  throne,"  much 
to  our  and  other  people's  inconvenience,  whosoever  will  kill 
the  said  mechanic  fellow  "  by  sword,  pistol,  or  poison,"  shall 
have  £  500  a  year  settled  upon  him,  with  colonelcies  in  our 
Army,  and  other  rewards  suitable,  and  be  a  made  man,  — 
"  on  the  word  and  faith  of  a  Christian  King."  A  Procla- 
mation which  cannot  be  circulated  except  hi  secret;  but  is 
well  worth  reading  by  all  loyal  men.  And  so  Royalist 
Plots  also  succeed  one  another,  thick  and  threefold  through 
Oliver's  whole  life;  —  but  cannot  take  effect.  Vain  for  a 
Christian  King  and  his  cuimingest  Chancellors  to  summon 
all  the  sinners  of  the  Earth,  and  whatever  of  necessitous 
Truculent-Flunkeyism  there  may  be,  and  to  bid,  in  the 
name  of  Heaven  and  of  another  place,  for  the  Head  of 
Oliver  Cromwell;  once  for  all,  they  cannot  have  it,  that 
Head  of  Cromwell ;  —  not  till  he  has  entirely  done  with  it, 
and  can  make  them  welcome  to  their  benefit  from  it. 


JAMES  NAYLER  AND  COMPANY. 

"!N  the  month  of  October,  1655,"  there  was  seen  a 
strange  sight  at  Bristol  in  the  West.  A  Procession  of 
Eight  Persons  ;  one,  a  man  on  horseback,  riding  single ;  the 
others,  men  and  women,  partly  riding  double,  partly  on  foot, 
in  the  muddiest  highway,  in  the  wettest  weather ;  singing, 
all  but  the  single  rider,  at  whose  bridle  splash  and  walk  two 
women :  "  Hosannah  !  Holy,  holy  !  Lord  God  of  Sabaoth  ! " 
and  other  things,  "  in  a  buzzing  tone,"  which  the  impartial 
hearer  could  not  make  out.  The  single-rider  is  a  rawboned 


CROMWKLL  65 

male  figure,  "  with  lank  hair  reaching  below  his  cheeks ; " 
hat  drawn  close  over  his  brows ;  "  nose  rising  slightly  in  the 
middle  ; "  of  abstruse  "  down  look,"  and  large  dangerous 
jaws  strictly  closed :  he  sings  not ;  sits  there  covered ;  and 
is  sung  to  by  the  others  bare.  Amid  pouring  deluges,  and 
mud  knee-deep :  "  so  that  the  rain  ran  in  at  their  necks,  and 
they  vented  it  at  their  hose  and  breeches  " :  a  spectacle  to 
the  West  of  England  and  Posterity !  Singing  as  above ; 
answering  no  question  except  in  song.  From  Bedminster 
to  Ratcliffe  Gate,  along  the  streets  to  the  High  Cross  of 
Bristol:  at  the  High  Cross  they  are  laid  hold  of  by  the 
Authorities  ;  — turn  out  to  be  James  Nayler  and  Company. 
James  Nayler,  "  from  Andersloe "  or  Ardsley  "  in  York- 
shire," heretofore  a  Trooper  under  Lambert ;  now  a  Qua- 
ker and  something  more.  Infatuated  Nayler  and  Com- 
pany; given  up  to  Enthusiasm,  —  to  Animal-Magnetism,  to 
Chaos  and  Bedlam  in  one  shape  or  other !  Who  will  need 
to  be  coerced  by  the  Major-Generals,  I  think ;  —  to  be  for- 
warded to  London,  and  there  sifted  and  cross-questioned. 
Is  not  the  Spiritualism  of  England  developing  itself  in 
strange  forms  ?  The  Hydra,  royalist  and  sansculottic,  has 
many  heads. 


THE    WEST    INDIAN    INTEREST. 

THE  Grand  Sea- Armament  which  sailed  from  Portsmouth 
at  Christmas,  1654,  proved  unsuccessful.  It  went  west- 
ward ;  opened  its  sealed  Instructions  at  a  certain  latitude ; 
found  that  they  were  instructions  to  attack  Hispaniola,  to 
attack  the  Spanish  Power  in  the  West  Indies ;  it  did  attack 
Hispaniola,  and  lamentably  failed;  attacked  the  Spanish 
Power  in  the  West  Indies,  and  has  hitherto  realized  almost 
nothing,  —  a  mere  waste  Island  of  Jamaica,  to  all*  appear- 
ance little  worth  the  keeping  at  such  cost.  It  is  hitherto 


66  THOMAS    CARLYLF, 

the  unsuccessfulest  enterprise  Oliver  Cromwell  ever  had 
concern  with.  Desborow  fitted  it  out  at  Portsmouth,  while 
the  Lord  Protector  was  busy  with  his  First  refractory  Ped- 
ant Parliament ;  there  are  faults  imputed  to  Desborow  :  but 
the  grand  fault  the  Lord  Protector  imputes  to  himself,  That 
he  chose,  or  sanctioned  the  choice  of  Generals,  improper  to 
command  it.  Sea-General  Penn,  Land-General  Venables, 
they  were  unfortunate,  they  were  incompetent ;  fell  into 
disagreements,  into  distempers  of  the  bowels ;  had  crit- 
ical Civil  Commissioners  with  them,  too,  who  did  not  mend 
the  matter.  Venables  lay  "  six  weeks  in  bed,"  very  ill  of 
sad  West-India  maladies ;  for  the  rest,  a  covetous  lazy  dog, 
who  cared  nothing  for  the  business,  but  wanted  to  be  home 
at  his  Irish  Government  again.  Penn  is  Father  of  Penn 
the  Pennsylvanian  Quaker  ;  a  man  somewhat  quick  of  tem- 
per "  like  to  break  his  heart,"  when  affairs  went  wrong ; 
unfit  to  right  them  again.  The  two  Generals  came  volun- 
tarily home  in  the  end  of  last  August  [1655],  leaving  the 
wreck  of  their  forces  in  Jamaica;  and  were  straightway 
lodged  in  the  Tower  for  quitting  their  post. 

A  great  Armament  of  Thirty,  nay  of  Sixty  ships  ;  of 
Four-thousand  soldiers,  two  regiments  of  whom  were  vet- 
erans, the  rest  a  somewhat  sad  miscellany  of  broken  Royal- 
ists, unruly  Levellers,  and  the  like,  who  would  volunteer,  — 
whom  Venables  augmented  at  Barbadoes,  with  a  still  more 
unruly  set  to  Nine-thousand :  this  great  Armament  the 
Lord  Protector  has  strenuously  hurled,  as  a  sudden  fiery 
bolt,  into  the  dark  Domdaniel  of  Spanish  Iniquity  in  the  far 
West ;  and  it  has  exploded  there,  almost  without  effect 
The  Armament  saw  Hispaniola,  and  Hispaniola  with  fear 
and  wonder  saw  it,  on  the  14th  of  April,  1055:  but  the 
Armament,  a  sad  miscellany  of  distempered  unruly  persons, 
durst  not  land  "  where  Drake  had  landed,"  and  at  once  take 
the  Town  and  Island :  the  Armament  hovered  hither  and 
thither;  and  at  last  agreed  to  land  some  sixty  miles  off: 


CROMWELL.  67 

marched  therefrom  through  thick-tangled  woods,  under  trop- 
ical heats,  till  it  was  nearly  dead  with  mere  marching; 
was  then  set  upon  by  ambuscadoes ;  fought  miserably  ill, 
the  unruly  persons  of  it,  or  would  not  fight  at  all;  fled 
back"  to  its  ships  a  mass  of  miserable  disorganic  ruin ;  and 
"  dying  there  at  the  rate  of  two-hundred  a  day,"  made  for 
Jamaica. 

Jamaica,  a  poor  unpopulous  Island,  was  quickly  taken,  as 
rioh  Hispaniola  might  have  been,  and  the  Spaniards  were 
driven  away :  but  to  men  in  biliary  humor  it  seemed  hardly 
worth  the  taking  or  the  keeping.  "  Immense  Proves  of 
wild  cattle:  cows  and  horses,  run  about  Jamaica";  dusky 
Spaniards  dwell  in  hatos,  in  unswept  shealings :  "  80,000 
hogs  are  killed  every  year  for  the  sake  of  their  lard,  which 
is  sold  under  the  name  of  hog's-butter  at  Carthagena  " :  but 
what  can  we  do  with  all  that !  The  poor  Armament  con- 
tinuing to  die  as  if  by  murrain,  and  all  things  looking  worse 
and  worse  to  poor  biliary  Generals.  Sea- General  Penn  set 
sail  for  home,  whom  Land- General  Venables  swiftly  fol- 
lowed: leaving  Vice-Admiral  Goodson,  "  Major- General 
Fortescue,"  or  almost  whosoever  liked,  to  manage  in  their 
absence,  and  their  ruined  moribund  forces  to  die  as  they 
could ;  —  and  are  now  lodged  in  the  Tower,  as  they  de- 
served to  be.  The  Lord  Protector,  and  virtually  England 
with  him,  had  hoped  to  see  the  dark  empire  of  bloody 
Antichristian  Spain  a  little  shaken  in  the  West;  some 
reparation  got  for  its  inhuman  massacrings,  and  long  con- 
tinued tyrannies,  —  massacrings,  exterminations  of  us,  "  at 
St.  Kitts  in  1629,  at  Tortuga  in  1637,  at  Santa  Cruz 
in  1650  " :  so,  in  the  name  of  England,  had  this  Lord  Pro- 
tector hoped ;  and  he  has  now  to  take  his  disappointment. 

The  ulterior  history  of  these  "Western  Affairs,  of  this  new 
Jamaica  under  Cromwell,  lies  far  dislocated,  drowned  deep, 
in  the  Slumber-Lakes  of  Thurloe  and  Company ;  in  a  most 
dark,  stupefied,  and  altogether  dismal  condition.  A  history 


68  THOMAS    CAKLVLE. 

indeed,  which,  as  you  painfully  fish  it  up  and  by  d< 

Aen  it  to  life,  is  in  itself  sufficiently  dismal.  Not 
much  to  be  intermeddled  with  here.  The  English  loft  in 
Jamaica,  the  English  sue  .hither,  prospe 

as  lu-ed   be:  still  die.  soldiers   and   settlers  of  them, 
frightful  rate  per  day  :  languish,  for  most  part,  astonished  in 
their  sultry  strange  new  element  :  and  cannot  be  brought  to 
front  with  right  manhood  the  deadly  inextricable  jungle  of 
tropical  confusions,  oim-r  and  inner,  in  which  they  find  them- 

l>rave    Governors,    For;<sene,    Sedg-.vick.    r.rayne. 

*         :ber,  die  rapidly,  of  the  climate  and  of  broken 
heart  ;  their  life-tire  all  >  B,  in  that  dark  chaos,  and 

no  result  visible.      It  is  painful  to  read  what  misbe- 
havior there  is.  what  difficulties  there  are. 

Almost  the  one  strady  light-point  in  the  business  is  the 
Protector's  own  spirit  of  determination.  If  England  have 
now  a  ••  West-India  Im<  1  Jamaica  be  an  Island 
worth  something,  it  is  to  this  Protector  mainly  that  we  owe 
it.  Here  too.  as  in  former  dark  Hope  shines  in 
him,  like  a  pillar  if  fire,  when  it  has  gone  out  in  all  the 
others."  Having  put  his  hand  to  this  work,  he  will  r 
any  discouragement  turn  back.  Jamaica  shall  yet  be  a  col- 
ony ;  Spain  and  its  dark  Domdaniel  shall  yet  be  smitten  to 
the  heart,  —  the  enemies  of  God  and  His  Gospel,  by  the 
soldiers  and  servants  of  God.  It  must,  and  it  shall.  We 
have  failed  in  the  West,  but  not  wholly  ;  in  the  West  and  in 
the  East,  by  sea  and  by  land,  as  occasion  shall  be  min- 
istered, we  will  try  it  again  and  again Reinforce- 
ment went  on  the  back  of  reinforcement,  during  this  Pro- 
tector's lifetime;  "a  Thousand  Irish  Girls"  went;  not  to 
speak  of  the  rogue-aud-vagabond  species  from  Scotland.  — 
"we  can  help  you"  at  any  time  "to  two  or  three  hundred 
of  these,"  And  so  at  length  a  West-India  Interest  did  take 
root;  and  bears  spices  and  poisous,  and  other  produce,  to 
this  day. 


CROMWELL.  <,<j 


QUARTERMASTER  SINDERCOMB  THE  ASSASSIN. 


Mu.i:s  Si.MH.KroMi;,  now  a  cashiered  muster  hV 

is  once  a  zealous  Deptford  in.  I,  v.  : 
li-ied  to  fi'jiii  lor  j,ib»-r  inning  of  these  wars. 

!!<•,  Ion  -hi  -trolley  on  the  side  of  Liberty,  bcin^ 

lowj  —  then  gradually  got  astray  into   !,•  \ 
c|lin;_'    COUr  <"-•,  and    wandered   ever   d<  -eper   there,   till   day- 
•  I    it    became   quite   dark.      He  waH  one 

•i«-d  Corporals,  or  Quartermasters, 
doomed  to  ,t    I  'nirf«>rd,  M;vcri  years  ago:  but  he  es- 

ni;_'lit.  ;ui'l  w;i*  nol  -hot  llu;rc;  took  Mi\ 
Scotland;  got  again  to  be  Quartermaster  ;  was  in  tlj<;  Over- 
ton  J'lot,  lor  Beising  Monk  and  marching  into  I-^ngland, 
lately;  \\  h<Tcuj;on  Monk  ea^hiered  hini  :  and  he  carne  to 
;  lo<l^<-<!  himself  here,  in  a  sulky  threadbare  man- 
ner, —  in  Ak-itia  or  elsewhere.  A  gloomy  man  and  Ex- 
Qii.-iri'-i  master;  has  become  one  of  Sexby'»  people,  "  on  the; 
faith  of  A  Tin!  linn  Kin^";  nolliing  now  left  of  him  but  the 
fierceness,  groping  some  path  for  itself,  in  the  utter  dark. 
Henry  Toope,  one  of  his  Highnesses  Lifeguard:  gives  us, 
or  will  give  us,  an  inkling  of  Sindercomb  ;  and  we  know 
hin#  of  his  courses  and  inventions,  whieh  are  many. 
He  rode  in  Hyde  1'ark  among  his  Iligbness's  escort,  with 
;  but  the  deed  could  not  then  be  done.  Leave  me 
the  £  1600,  said  he  ;  and  I  will  find  a  way  to  do  it.  Sexby 
left  it  him  ami  went  abroad. 

Inventive  Sindercomb  then  took  a  House  in  Hammer- 
smith; Garden-House,  I  think,  "whieh  had  a  banqueting- 
room  looking  into  the  road";  road  very  narrow  at  that 
part;  —  road  from  Whitehall  to  Hampton  Court  on  Satur- 
day-afternoons. Inventive  Sindercomb  here  set  about  pro- 
viding blunderbusses  of  the  due  explosive  force,  —  ancient 
''infernal  machines,"  in  fact,  —  with  these  he  will  blow  hi* 


70  THOMAS   CARLYLE. 

Highness's  Coach  and  his  Highness's  self  into  small  pieces, 
if  it  please  Heaven.  It  did  not  please  Heaven,  —  prob- 
ably not  Henry  Toope  of  his  Highuess's  Lifeguard.  This 
first  scheme  proved  a  failure. 

Inventive  Sindercomb,  to  justify  his  £1600,  had  to  try 
something.  He  decided  to  fire  Whitehall  by  night,  and  ha\  e 
a  stroke  at  his  Highness  in  the  tumult.  He  has  "  a  hun- 
dred swift  horses,  two  in  a  stable,  up  and  down  " :  —  set  a 
hundred  stout  ruffians  on  the  back  of  these,  in  the  nocturnal 
fire  ;  and  try  Thursday,  8th  January,  1656-7  ;  that  is  to  be 
the  Night.  On  the  dusk  of  Thursday,  January  8th,  he  with 
old-trooper  Cecil,  his  second  in  the  business,  attends  Public 
Worship  in  Whitehall  Chapel ;  is  seen  loitering  there  after- 
wards, "  near  the  Lord  Lambert's  seat."  Nothing  more  is 
seen  of  him  :  but  about  half-past  eleven  at  night,  the  senti- 
nel on  guard  catches  a  smell  of  fire  ;  —  finds  holed  wain- 
scots, picked  locks ;  a  basket  of  the  most  virulent  wildfire, 
"  fit  almost  to  burn  through  stones,"  with  lit  match  slowly 
creeping  towards  it,  computed  to  reach  it  in  some  half-hour 
hence,  about  the  stroke  of  midnight!  —  His  Highness  is 
summoned,  the  Council  is  summoned ;  —  alas,  Toope  of  the 
Lifeguard  is  examined  and  Sindercomb's  lodging  is  known. 
Just  when  the  wildfire  should  have  blazed,  two  Guardsmen 
wait  upon  Sindercomb ;  seize  him,  not  without  hard  defence 
on  his  part,  "wherein  his  nose  was  nearly  cut  off" ;  bring 
him  to  his  Highness.  Toope  testifies ;  Cecil  peaches :  — 
inventive  Sindercomb  has  failed  for  the  last  time.  To  the 
Tower  with  him,  to  a  jury  of  his  country  with  him  !  —  The 
emotion  in  the  Parliament  and  in  the  Public,  next  morning, 
was  great.  It  had  been  proposed  to  ring  an  alarm  at  the 
moment  of  discovery,  and  summon  the  Trainbands ;  but  his 
Highness  would  not  hear  of  it. 

This  Parliament,  really  intent  on  settling  the  Nation, 
could  not  want  for  emotions,  in  regard  to  such  a  matter! 
Parliament  adjourns  for  a  week,  till  the  roots  of  the  Pic  t  are 


CROMWELL.  71 

investigated  somewhat.  Parliament,  on  reassembling,  ap- 
points a  day  of  Thanksgiving  for  the  Nation ;  Friday,  come 
four  weeks,  which  is  February  20th,  that  shall  be  the  gen- 
eral Thanksgiving  Day :  and  in  the  mean  time  we  decide  to 
go  over  in  a  body,  and  congratulate  his  Highness.  A  mark 

of  great  respect  to  him 

On  Monday,  9th  February,  Sindercomb  was  tried  by  a 
jury  in  the  Upper  Bench  ;  and  doomed  to  suffer  as  a  traitor 
and  assassin,  on  the  Saturday  following.  The  night  before 
Saturday  his  poor  Sister,  though  narrowly  watched,  smug- 
gled him  some  poison  :  he  went  to  bed,  saying,  "  Well,  this 
is  the  last  time  I  shall  go  to  bed  " ;  the  attendants  heard  him 
snore  heavily,  and  then  cease  ;  they  looked,  and  he  lay  dead. 
"  He  was  of  that  wretched  sect  called  Soul- Sleepers,  who  be- 
lieve that  the  soul  falls  asleep  at  death  "  ;  a  gloomy,  far-mis- 
guided man.  They  buried  him  on  Tower-hill,  with  due  igno- 
miny, and  there  he  rests ;  with  none  but  frantic  Anabaptist 
Sexby,  or  Deceptive  Presbyterian  Titus,  to  sing  his  praise. 


INSTALLED    AS    PROTECTOR. 

LAND- GENERAL  REYNOLDS  has  gone  to  the  French  Neth- 
erlands, with  Six-thousand  men,  to  join  Turenne  in  fighting 
the  Spaniards  there ;  and  Sea-General  Montague,  is  about 
hoisting  his  flag  to  co-operate  with  him  from  the  other  ele- 
ment. By  sea  and  land  are  many  things  passing ;  —  and 
here  in  London  is  the  loudest  thing  of  all :  not  yet  to  be 
entirely  omitted  by  us,  though  now  it  has  fallen  very  silent 
in  comparison.  Inauguration  of  the  Lord  Protector ;  second 
and  more  solemn  Installation  of  him,  now  that  he  is  fully 
recognized  by  Parliament  itself.  He  cannot  yet,  as  it 
proves,  be  crowned  King ;  but  he  shall  be  installed  in  his 
Protectorship  with  all  solemnity  befitting  such  an  occasion. 

Friday,  2Qth  June,  1657.     The  Parliament  and  all  the 


72  THOMAS    CARLYLE. 

world  are  busy  with  this  grand  affair;  the  labors  of  the 
Session  being  now  complete,  the  last  finish  being  now  given 
to  our  new  Instrument  of  Government,  to  our  elaborate 
Petition  and  Advice,  we  will  add  this  topstone  to  the  work, 
and  so  amid  the  shoutings  of  mankind,  disperse  for  the: 
recess.  Friday  at  two  o'clock,  "  in  a  place  prepared,"  duly 
prepared,  with  all  manner  of  "  platforms,"  "  cloths  of  state," 
and  "  seats  raised  one  above  the  other,"  "  at  the  upper  end  of 
Westminster  Hall."  Palace  Yard,  and  London  generally, 
is  all  a-tiptoe,  out  of  doors.  Within  doors,  Speaker  Wid- 
drington  and  the  Master  of  the  Ceremonies  have  done  their 
best :  the  Judges,  the  Aldermen,  the  Parliament,  the  Coun- 
cil, the  foreign  Ambassadors,  and  domestic  Dignitaries  with- 
out end ;  chairs  of  state,  cloths  of  state,  trumpet-peals,  and 
acclamations  of  the  people  — "  Let  the  reader  conceive  it ;  or 
read  in  old  pamphlets  the  "  exact  relation  "  of  it  with  all  the 
speeches  and  phenomena,  worthier  than  such  things  usually 
are  of  being  read. 

"  His  Highness  standing  under  the  Cloth  of  State,"  says 
Bulstrode,  whose  fine  feelings  are  evidently  touched  by  it, 
"  the  Speaker,  in  the  name  of  the  Parliament,  presented  to 
him :  First,  a  Robe  of  purple  velvet ;  which  the  Speaker, 
assisted  by  Whitlocke  and  others,  put  upon  his  Highness. 
Then  he,"  the  Speaker,  "  delivered  to  him  the  Bible  richly 
gilt  and  bossed,"  an  affecting  symbolic  Gift :  "  After  that, 
the  Speaker  girt  the  Sword  about  his  Highness  ;  and  deliv- 
ered into  his  hand  the  Sceptre  of  massy  gold.  And  then, 
this  done,  he  made  a  Speech  to  him  on  these  several  things 
presented " ;  eloquent  mellifluous  Speech,  setting  forth  the 
high  and  true  significance  of  these  several  Symbols,  Speech 
still  worth  reading ;  to  which  his  Highness  answered  in 
silence  by  dignified  gesture  only.  "  Then  Mr.  Speaker 
gave  him  the  Oath";  and  so 'ended  really  in  a  solemn  man- 
ner. "And  Mr.  Manton,  by  prayer,  recommended  his 
Highness,  the  Parliament,  the  Council,  the  Forces  by  land 


CROMWELL.  73 

and  sea,  and  the  whole  Government  and  People  of  the 
Three  Nations,  to  the  blessing  and  protection  of  God."  — 
And  then  "the  people  gave  several  great  shouts";  and 
"  the  trumpets  sounded ;  and  the  Protector  sat  in  his  chair 
of  state,  holding  the  Sceptre  in  his  hand " ;  a  remarkat  le 
sight  to  see.  "On  his  right  sat  the  Ambassador  of 
France,"  on  his  left  some  other  Ambassador ;  and  all  round, 
standing  or  sitting,  were  Dignitaries  of  the  highest  quality ; 
"and  near  the  Earl  of  Warwick,  stood  the  Lord  Viscount 
Lisle,  stood  General  Montague  and  Whitlocke,  each  of 
them  having  a  drawn  sword  in  his  hand,"  —  a  sublime  sight 
to  some  of  us ! 

And  so  this  Solemnity  transacts  itself;  —  which,  at  the 
moment,  was  solemn  enough ;  and  is  not  yet,  at  this  or  any 
hollowest  moment  of  Human  History,  intrinsically  alto- 
gether other.  A  really  dignified  and  veritable  piece  of  Sym- 
bolism; perhaps  the  last  we  hitherto,  in  these  quack-ridden 
histrionic  ages,  have  been  privileged  to  see  on  such  an  occa- 
sion. 


ROYALIST    INSURRECTION    FAILURE. 

His  Highness,  before  this  Monday's  sun  sets  [Feb.  4, 
1658],  has  begun  to  lodge  the  Anarchic  Ringleaders,  Roy- 
alist, Fifth-Monarchist,  in  the  Tower ;  his  Highness  is  bent 
once  more  with  all  his  faculty,  the  Talking- Apparatus  being 
gone,  to  front  this  Hydra,  and  trample  it  down  once  again. 
On  Saturday  he  summons  his  Officers,  his  Acting- Appara- 
tus, to  Whitehall  round  him ;  explains  to  them  "  in  a  Speech 
two  hours  long"  what  kind  of  Hydra  it  is;  asks,  Shall  it  con- 
quer us,  involve  us  in  blood  and  confusion  ?  They  answer 
from  their  hearts,  No,  it  shall  not !  "  We  will  stand  and 
fall  with  your  Highness,  we  will  live  and  die  with  you ! "  — 
It  is  the  last  duel  this  Oliver  has  with  any  Hydra  foment- 

4 


74  THOMAS    CARLYLE. 

ed  into  life  by  a  Talking- Apparatus ;  and  he  again  conquers 
it,  invincibly  compresses  it,  as  he  has  heretofore  done. 

One  day,  in  the  early  days  of  March  next,  his  Highness 
said  to  Lord  Broghil :  An  old  friend  of  yours  is  in  Town, 
the  Duke  of  Ormond,  now  lodged  in  Drury  Lane,  at  the 
Papist  Surgeon's  there ;  you  had  better  tell  him  to  be  gone ! 
Whereat  his  Lordship  stared;  found  it  a  fact  however  ;  and 
his  Grace  of  Ormond  did  go  with  exemplary  speed,  and  got 
again  to  Bruges  and  the  Sacred  Majesty,  with  report  That 
Cromwell  had  many  enemies,  but  that  the  rise  of  the  Roy- 
alists was  moonshine.  Arid  on  the  12th  of  the  month  his 
Highness  had  the  Mayor  and  Common  Council  with  him  in 
a  body  at  Whitehall ;  and  "  in  a  Speech  at  large  "  explained 
to  them  that  his  Grace  of  Ormond  was  gone  only  "  on  Tues- 
day last " ;  that  there  were  Spanish  Invasions,  Royalist  In- 
surrections, and  Frantic-Anabaptist  Insurrections  rapidly 
ripening ;  —  that  it  would  well  beseem  the  City  of  London 
to  have  its  Militia  in  good  order.  To  which  the  Mayor  and 
Common  Council  "  being  very  sensible  thereof,"  made  zeal- 
DUS  response  by  speech  and  by  act.  In  a  word,  the  Talk- 
ing-Apparatus being  gone,  and  an  Oliver  Protector  no\v  at 
the  head  of  the  Acting- Apparatus,  no  Insurrection,  in  the 
eyes  of  reasonable  persons,  had  any  chance.  The  leading 
Royalists  shrank  close  into  their  privacies  again,  —  consid- 
erable numbers  of  them  had  to  shrink  into  durance  in  the 
Tower.  Among  which  latter  class  his  Highness,  justly  in- 
censed, and  "  considering,"  as  Thurloe  says,  "  that  it  was  not 
lit  there  should  be  a  Plot  of  this  kind  every  winter,"  had 
determined  that  a  High  Court  of  Justice  should  take  cogni- 
zance of  some.  High  Court  of  Justice  is  accordingly  nomi- 
nated as  the  Act  of  Parliament  prescribes :  among  the  par- 
ties marked  for  Trial  by  it  are  Sir  Henry  Slingsby,  long 
since  prisoner  for  Penruddock's  business,  and  the  Rev.  Dr. 
Hewit,  a  man  of  much  forwardness  in  Royalism.  Sir  Henry, 
prisoner  in  Hull  and  acquainted  with  the  Chief  Officers 


CROMWELL.  75 

there,  has  been  treating  with  them  for  betrayal  of  the  place 
to  his  Majesty ;  has  even,  to  that  end,  given  one  of  them  a 
Majesty's  Commission ;  for  whose  Spanish  Invasion  such  a 
Haven  and  Fortress  would  have  been  extremely  convenient. 
Reverond  Dr.  Hewit,  preaching  by  sufferance,  according  to 
the  old  ritual,  "  in  St.  Gregory's  Church  near  Paul's, "  to  a 
select  disaffected  audience,  has  farther  seen  good  to  distin- 
guish himself  very  much  by  secular  zeal  in  this  business  of 
the  Royalist  Insurrection  and  Spanish  Charles-Stuart  Inva- 
sion ;  —  which  has  now  come  to  nothing,  and  left  poor  Dr. 
Hewit  in  a  most  questionable  position.  Of  these  two,  and 
of  others,  a  High  Court  of  Justice  shall  take  cognizance. 

The  Insurrection  having  no  chance  in  the  eyes  of  reason- 
able Royalists,  and  they  in  consequence  refusing  to  lead  it, 
the  large  body  of  tmreasouable  Royalists  now  in  London 
City,  or  gathering  thither,  decide,  with  indignation,  That  they 
will  try  it  on  their  own  score  and  lead  it  themselves.  Hands 
to  work,  then,  ye  unreasonable  Royalists ;  pipe,  All  hands  ! 
Saturday  the  1  oth  of  May,  that  is  the  night  appointed :  To 
rise  that  Saturday  Night ;  beat  drums  for  u  Royalist  Ap- 
prentices," 'k  fire  houses  at  the  Tower,"  slay  this  man,  slay 
that,  and  bring  matters  to  a  good  issue.  Alas,  on  the  very 
edge  of  the  appointed  hour,  as  usual,  we  are  all  seized ;  the 
ringleaders  of  us  are  all  seized,  "  at  the  Mermaid  in  Cheap- 
side," —  for  Thurloe  and  his  Highness  have  long  known 
what  we  were  upon !  Barkstead,  Governor  of  the  Tower, 
"  marches  into  the  City  with  five  drakes,"  at  the  rattle  of 
which  every  Royalist  Apprentice,  and  party  implicated, 
shakes  in  his  shoes:  —  and  this  also  has  gone  to  vapor, 
leaving  only  for  result  certain  new  individuals  of  the  Civic 
class  to  give  account  of  it  to  the  High  Court  of  Justice. 

Tuesday,  25th  May,  1658,  the  High  Court  of  Justice  sat ; 
a  formidable  Sanhedrim  of  above  a  Hundred-and-thirty 
heads ;  consisting  of  "  all  the  Judges,"  chief  Law  Officials, 
and  others  named  in  the  Writ,  according  to  Act  of  Parlia- 


76  THOMAS   CARLYLE. 

ment ;  —  sat  "  in  Westminster  Hall,  at  nine  in  the  morning, 
for  the  Trial  of  Sir  Henry  Slingsby,  Knight,  John  Hewit, 
Doctor  of  Divinity,"  and  three  others  whom  we  may  forget. 
Sat  day  after  day  till  all  were  judged.  Poor  Sir  Henry,  on 
the  first  day,  was  condemned ;  he  pleaded  what  he  could, 
poor  gentleman,  a  very  constant  Royalist  all  along ;  but  the 
Hull  business  was  too  palpable ;  he  was  condemned  to  die. 
Reverend  Dr.  Hewit,  whose  proceedings  also  had  become 
very  palpable,  refused  to  plead  at  all ;  refused  even  "  to  take 
off  his  hat,"  says  Carrion  Heath,  "  till  the  officer  was  coming 
to  do  it  for  him  "  ;  had  a  <k  Paper  of  Demurrers  prepared  by 
the  learned  Mr.  Prynne,"  who  is  now  again  doing  business 
this  way ;  "  conducted  himself  not  very  wisely,"  says  Bui- 
strode.  He  likewise  received  sentence  of  death.  The  oth- 
ers, by  narrow  missing,  escaped  ;  by  good  luck,  or  the  Pro- 
tector's mercy,  suffered  nothing. 

As  to  Slingsby  and  Hewit,  the  Protector  was  inexorable. 
Hewit  has  already  taken  a  very  high  line :  let  him  perse- 
vere in  it!  Slingsby  was  the  Lord  Fauconberg's  uncle, 
married  to  his  Aunt  Bellasis ;  but  that  could  not  stead  him, 
—  perhaps  that  was  but  a  new  monition  to  be  strict  with 
him.  The  Commonwealth  of  England  and  its  Peace  are  not 
nothing!  These  Royalist  Plots  every  winter,  deliveries 
of  garrisons  to  Charles  Stuart,  and  reckless  "  usherings  of  us 
into  blood,"  shall  end!  Hewit  and  Slingsby  suffered  on 
Tower  Hill,  on  Monday,  8th  June;  amid  the  manifold 
rumor  and  emotion  of  men.  Of  the  City  insurrectionists 
six  were  condemned ;  three  of  whom  were  executed,  three 
pardoned.  And  so  the  High  Court  of  Justice  dissolved 
itself;  and  at  this  and  not  at  more  expense  of  blood,  the 
huge  Insurrectionary  movement  ended,  and  lay  silent  within 
its  caves  again. 

Whether  in  any  future  year  it  would  have  tried  another 
rising  against  such  a  Lord  Protector,  one  does  not  know,  — 
one  guesses  rather  in  the  negative.  The  Royalist  Cause. 


CROMWELL.  77 

after  so  many  failures,  after  such  a  sort  of  enterprises  u  on 
the  word  of  a  Christian  King,"  had  naturally  sunk  very  low. 
Some  twelvemonth  hence,  with  a  Commonwealth  not  now 
under  Cromwell,  but  only  under  the  impulse  of  Cromwell, 
a  Christian  King  hastening  down  to  the  Treaty  of  the  Pyr- 
enees, where  France  and  Spain  were  making  Peace,  found 
one  of  the  coldest  receptions.  Cardinal  Mazarin  "  sent  his 
coaches  and  guards  a  day's  journey  to  meet  Lockhart,  the 
Commonwealth  Ambassador.";  but  refused  to  meet  the 
Christian  King  at  all ;  would  not  even  meet  Ormond  except 
as  if  by  accident,  "  on  the  public  road,"  to  say  that  there  was 
no  hope.  The  Spanish  Minister,  Don  Louis  de  Haro,  was 
civiller  in  manner ;  but  as  to  Spanish  Charles-Stuart  Inva- 
sions or  the  like,  he  also  decisively  shook  his  head.  The 
Royalist  cause  was  as  good  as  desperate  in  England ;  a  mel- 
ancholy Reminiscence,  fast  fading  away  into  the  realm  of 
shadows.  Not  till  Puritanism  sank  of  its  own  accord,  could 
Royalism  rise  again.  But  Puritanism,  the  King  of  it  once 
away,  fell  loose  very  naturally  in  every  fibre,  —  fell  into 
Kinglessness,  what  we  call  Anarchy ;  crumbled  down,  ever 
faster,  for  Sixteen  Months,  in  mad  suicide,  and  universal 
clashing  and  collision ;  proved,  by  trial  after  trial,  that  there 
lay  not  in  it  either  Government  or  so  much  as  Self- Govern- 
ment any  more ;  that  a  Government  of  England  by  it  was 
henceforth  an  impossibility.  Amid  the  general  wreck  of 
things,  all  Government  threatening  now  to  be  impossible, 
the  Reminiscence  of  Royalty  rose  again,  uLet  us  take 
refuge  in  the  Past,  the  Future  is  not  possible  ! "  and  Major- 
General  Monk  crossed  the  Tweed  at  Coldstream,  with 
results  which  are  well  known. 

Results  which  we  will  not  quarrel  with,  very  mournful  as 
they  have  been  !  If  it  please  Heaven,  these  Two  Hundred 
Years  of  universal  Cant  in  Speech,  with  so  much  of  Cotton- 
spimiing,  Coal-boring,  Commercing,  and  other  valuable  Sin- 
cerity of  Work  going  on  the  while,  shall  not  be  quite  lost  to 


78  THOMAS    CARLYLE. 

us!  Our  Cant  will  vanish,  our  whole  baleful  cunningly 
compacted  Universe  of  Cant,  as  does  a  heavy  Nightmare 
Dream.  We  shall  awaken ;  and  find  ourselves  in  a  world 
greatly  widened.  —  Why  Puritanism  could  not  continue  ? 
My  friend,  Puritanism  was  not  the  Complete  Theory  of  this 
immense  Universe ;  no,  only  a  part  thereof!  To  me  it 
seems,  in  my  hours  of  hope,  as  if  the  Destinies  meant  some- 
thing grander  with  England  than  even  Oliver  Protector  did ! 
We  will  not  quarrel  with  the  Destinies ;  we  will  work  as 
we  can  towards  fulfilment  of  them. 


DEATH    OF    THE    PROTECTOR. 

OLIVER'S  look  was  yet  strong ;  and  young  for  his  years, 
which  were  Fifty-nine  last  April  [1658].  The  "Three- 
score and  ten  years,"  the  Psalmist's  limit,  which  probably 
was  often  in  Oliver's  thoughts  and  in  those  of  others  there, 
might  have  been  anticipated  for  him :  Ten  years  more  of 
Life  ;  —  which,  we  may  compute,  would  have  given  another 
History  to  all  the  Centuries  of  England.  But  it  was  not  to 
be  so,  it  was  to  be  otherwise.  Oliver's  health,  as  we  might 
observe,  was  but  uncertain  in  late  times  ;  often  "  indisposed  " 
the  spring  before  last.  His  course  of  life  had  not  been 
favorable  to  health  !  "  A  burden  too  heavy  for  man  !  "  as 
he  himself,  with  a  sigh,  would  sometimes  say.  Incessant 
toil ;  inconceivable  labor,  of  head  and  heart  and  hand  ;  toil, 
peril,  and  sorrow  manifold,  continued  for  near  Twenty  years 
now,  had  done  their  part :  those  robust  life-energies,  it  after- 
ward appeared,  had  been  gradually  eaten  out.  Like  a  Tow- 
er strong  to  the  eye,  but  with  its  foundations  undermined ; 
which  has  not  lofi  g  to  stand ;  the  fall  of  which,  on  any  shock, 
may  be  sudden. 

The  Manzinis  and  Dues  de  Crequi,  with  their  splendors, 


CROMWELL.  79 

and  congratulations  about  Dunkirk,  interesting  to  the  street 
populations  and  general  public,  had  not  yet  withdrawn,  when 
at  Hampton  Court  there  had  begun  a  private  scene,  of 
much  deeper  and  quite  opposite  interest  there.  The  Lady 
Claypole,  Oliver's  favorite  Daughter,  a  favorite  of  all  the 
world,  had  fallen  sick  we  know  not  when  ;  lay  sick  now,  — 
to  death,  as  it  proved.  Her  disease  was  of  internal  female 
nature;  the  painfullest  and  most  harassing  to  mind  and 
sense,  it  is  understood,  that  falls  to  the  lot  of  a  human  crea- 
ture. Hampton  Court  we  can  fancy  once  more,  in  those 
July  days,  a  house  of  sorrow ;  pale  Death  knocking  there, 
as  at  the  door  of  the  meanest  hut.  "  She  had  great  suffer- 
ings, great  exercises  of  spirit ! "  Yes :  —  and  in  the  depths 
of  the  old  Centuries,  we  see  a  pale  anxious  Mother,  anxious 
Husband,  anxious  weeping  Sisters,  a  poor  young  Frances 
weeping  anew  in  her  weeds.  "  For  the  last  fourteen  days  " 
his  Highness  has  been  by  her  bedside  at  Hampton  Court, 
unable  to  attend  to  any  public  business  whatever.  Be  still, 
my  Child ;  trust  thou  yet  in  God :  in  the  waves  of  the  Dark 
River,  there  too  is  He  a  God  of  help  !  —  On  the  6th  day  of 
August  she  lay  dead ;  at  rest  forever.  My  young,  my  beau- 
tiful, my  brave !  She  is  taken  from  me  ;  I  am  left  bereaved 
of  her.  The  Lord  giveth,  and  the  Lord  taketh  away, 
blessed  be  the  Name  of  the  Lord !  .  .  .  . 

In  the  same  dark  days  occurred  George  Fox's  third 
and  last  interview  with  Oliver George  dates  noth- 
ing; and  his  facts  everywhere  lie  round  him  like  the  leather- 
parings  of  his  old  shop :  but  we  judge  it  may  have  been 
about  the  time  when  the  Manzinis  and  Dues  de  Craaii 
were  parading  in  their  gilt  coaches,  That  George  and  two 
Friends  "  going  out  of  Town,"  on  a  summer  day,  "  two  of 
Hacker's  men  "  had  met  them,  —  taken  them,  brought  them 
to  the  Mews.  "  Prisoners  there  a  while  " :  —  but  the  Lord's 
power  was  over  Hacker's  men;  they  had  to  let  us  go. 
"Whereupon : 


80  THOMAS    CARLYLE. 

"  The  same  day,  taking  boat  I  went  down "  (up)  "  to 
Kingston,  and  from  'thence  to  Hampton  Court,  to  speak 
with  the  Protector  about  the  Sufferings  of  Friends.  I  met 
him  riding  into  Hampton-Court  Park  ;  and  before  I  came  to 
him  as  he  rode  at  the  head  of  his  Lifeguard,  I  saw  and  felt 

a  waft "  (whiff)  "  of  death  go  forth  against  him." Or 

in  favor  of  him,  George  ?  His  life,  if  thou  knew  it,  has  not 
been  a  merry  thing  for  this  man,  now  or  heretofore  !  I  fancy 
he  has  been  looking,  this  long  while,  to  give  it  up,  when- 
ever the  Commander-in-chief  required.  To  quit  his  labori- 
ous sentry -post ;  honorably  lay  up  his  arms,  and  be  gone  to 
his  rest:  —  all  Eternity  to  rest  in,  O  George!  Was  thy 
own  life  merry,  for  example,  in  the  hollow  of  the  tree  ;  clad 
permanently  in  leather  ?  And  does  kingly  purple,  and  gov- 
erning refractory  worlds  instead  of  stitching  coarse  shoes, 
make  it  merrier  ?  The  waft  of  death  is  not  against  him  I 
think,  —  perhaps  against  thee,  and  me,  and  others,  0 
George,  when  the  Nell-Gwyn  Defender  and  Two  Centuries 
of  all-victorious  Cant  have  come  in  upon  us !  My  unfortu- 
nate George, "a  waft  of  death  go  forth  against  him; 

and  when  I  came  to  him,  he  looked  like  a  dead  man. 
After  I  had  laid  the  Sufferings  of  Friends  before  him,  and 
had  warned  him  accordingly  as  I  was  moved  to  speak  to 
him,  he  bade  me  come  to  his  house.  So  I  returned  to 
Kingston ;  and,  the  next  day,  went  up  to  Hampton  Court 
to  speak  farther  with  him.  But  when  I  came,  Harvey,  who 
was  one  that  waited  on  him,  told  me  the  Doctors  were  not 
willing  that  I  should  speak  with  him.  So  I  passed  away, 
and  never  saw  him  more." 

Friday,  the  20th  of  August,  1658,  this  was  probably  the 
day  on  which  George  Fox  saw  Oliver  riding  into  Hampton 
Park  with  his  Guards  for  the  last  time.  That  Friday,  as 
we  find,  his  Highness  seemed  much  better :  but  on  the  mor- 
row a  sad  change  had  taken  place ;  feverish  symptoms,  for 
which  the  Doctors  vigorously  prescribed  quiet.  Saturday 


CROMWELL.  81 

to  Tuesday  the  symptoms  continued  ever  worsening :  a  kind 
of  tertian  ague,  "  bastard  tertian  "  as  the  old  Doctors  name 
it ;  for  which  it  was  ordered  that  his  Highness  should  return 
to  Whitehall,  as  to  a  more  favorable  air  in  that  complaint. 
On  Tuesday,  accordingly,  he  quitted  Hampton  Court;  — 
never  to  see  it  more. 

"  His  time  was  come,"  says  Harvey,  "  and  neither  prayers 
nor  tears  could  prevail  with  God  to  lengthen  out  his  life, 
and  continue  him  longer  to  us.  Prayers  abundantly  and 
incessantly  poured  out  on  his  behalf,  both  publicly  and  pri- 
vately, as  was  observed,  in  a  more  than  ordinary  way.  Be- 
sides many  a  secret  sigh,  —  secret  and  unheard  by  men,  yel 
like  the  cry  of  Moses,  more  loud,  and  strongly  laying  hold 
on  God,  than  many  spoken  supplications.  All  which,  —  the 
hearts  of  God's  People  being  thus  mightily  stirred  up, — 
did  seem  to  beget  confidence  in  some,  and  hopes  in  all ;  ye*> 
some  thoughts  in  himself,  that  God  would  restore  him." 

**  Prayers  public  and  private  "  :  they  are  worth  imagining 
to  ourselves.  Meetings  of  Preachers,  Chaplains,  and  Godly 
Persons;  "Owen,  Goodwin,  Sterry,  with  a  company  of 
others  in  an  adjoining  room  " ;  in  Whitehall,  and  elsewhere 
over  religious  London  and  England,  fervent  outpourings  of 
many  a  loyal  heart.  For  there  were  hearts  to  whom  the 
nobleness  of  this  man  was  known ;  and  his  worth  to  the 
Puritan  Cause  was  evident.  Prayers,  —  strange  enough  to 
us ;  in  a  dialect  fallen  obsolete,  forgotten  now.  Authentic 
wrestlings  of  ancient  Human  Souls,  —  who  were  alive  then, 
with  their  affections,  awe-struck  pieties ;  with  their  Human 
Wishes,  risen  to  be  transcendent,  hoping  to  prevail  with  the 
Inexorable.  All  swallowed  now  in  the  depths  of  dark 
Time ;  which  is  full  of  such,  since  the  beginning !  Truly  it 
is  a  great  scene  of  World-History,  this  in  old  Whitehall: 
Oliver  Cromwell  drawing  nigh  to  his  end.  The  exit  of 
Oliver  Cromwell,  and  of  English  Puritanism;  a  great 
Light,  one  of  our  few  authentic  Solar  Luminaries,  going 
4*  v 


82  THOMAS    CARLYLE. 

down  now  amid  the  clouds  of  Death.  Like  the  setting  of  a 
great  victorious  summer  Sun  —  its  course  now  finished. 
"  So  stirbt  ein  Held,"  says  Schiller  ;  "  So  dies  a  Hero  !  Sight 
worthy  to  be  worshipped  ! "  He  died,  this  Hero  Oliver,  in 
Resignation  to  God,  as  the  Brave  have  all  done.  "  We  could 
not  be  more  desirous  he  should  abide,"  says  the  pious 
Harvey,  "than  he  was  content  and  willing  to  be  gone."  The 
struggle  lasted,  amid  hope  and  fear,  for  ten  days 

On  Monday,  August  30th,  there  roared  and  howled  all 
day  a  mighty  storm  of  wind.  Ludlow,  coming  up  to  Town 
from  Essex,  could  not  start  in  the  morning  for  wind ;  tried 
it  in  the  afternoon ;  still  could  not  get  along,  in  his  coach, 
for  head- wind;  had  to  stop  at  Epping.  On  the  morrow, 
Fleetwood  came  to  him  in  the  Protector's  name,  to  ask, 
What  he  wanted  here?  —  Nothing  of  public  concernment, 
only  to  see  my  mother-in-law  !  answered  the  solid  man.  For 
indeed  he  did  not  know  that  Oliver  was  dying ;  that  the  glo- 
rious hour  of  Disenthralment,  and  immortal  "  Liberty "  to 
plunge  over  precipices  with  one's  self  and  one's  Cause,  was 
so  nigh!  —  It  came;  and  he  took  the  precipices,  like  a 
strongboned  resolute  blind  ginhorse,  rejoicing  in  the  break- 
age of  its  halter,  in  a  very  gallant  constitutional  manner. 
Adieu,  my  solid  friend ;  if  I  go  to  Vevay,  I  will  read  thy 
Monument  there,  perhaps  not  without  emotion,  after  all ! 

It  was  on  this  stormy  Monday,  while  rocking-winds,  heard 
in  the  sick-room  and  everywhere,  were  piping  aloud,  that 
Thurloe  and  an  Official  person  entered  to  inquire,  Who,  in 
case  of  the  worst,  was  to  be  his  Highness's  Successor  ?  The 
Successor  is  named  in  a  sealed  Paper  already  drawn  up, 
above  a  year  ago,  at  Hampton  Court;  now  lying  in  such 
and  such  a  place.  The  Paper  was  sent  for,  searched  for; 
it  could  never  be  found.  Richard's  is  the  name  understood 
to  have  been  written  in  that  Paper :  not  a  good  name ;  but 
in  fact  one  does  not  know.  In  ten  years'  time,  had  ten 
years  more  been  granted,  Richard  might  have  become  a 


CROMWELL.  83 

fitter  man;  might  have  been  cancelled,  if  palpably  unfit. 
Or  perhaps  it  was  Fleetwood's  name,  —  and  the  Paper  by 
certain  parties  was  stolen  ?  None  knows.  On  the  Thurs- 
day night  following,  "  and  not  till  then,"  his  Highness  is 
understood  to  have  formally  named  "  Richard ! "  —  or  per- 
haps it  might  only  be  some  heavy-laden  "  Yes,  yes !  "  spoken 
out  of  the  thick  death-slumbers,  in  answer  to  Thurloe's  ques- 
tion "  Richard  ?  "  The  thing  is  a  little  uncertain.  It  was, 
once  more,  a  matter  of  much  moment ;  —  giving  color  prob- 
ably to  all  the  subsequent  Centuries  of  England,  this  an- 
swer! .... 

Thursday  night  the  writer  of  our  old  Pamphlet  was  him- 
self in  attendance  on  his  Highness ;  and  has  preserved  a 
trait  or  two  ;  with  which  let  us  hasten  to  conclude.  To-mor- 
row is  September  Third,  always  kept  as  a  Thanksgiving- 
day,  since  the  Victories  of  Dunbar  and  Worcester.  The 
wearied  one,  "  that  very  night  before  the  Lord  took  him  to 
his  everlasting  rest,"  was  heard  thus,  with  oppressed  voice, 
speaking :  — 

"  *  Truly  God  is  good ;  indeed,  He  is ;  He  will  not  — ' 
then  his  speech  failed  him,  but,  as  I  apprehended,  it  was, 
4  He  will  not  leave  me.'  This  saying,  '  God  is  good,'  he  fre- 
quently used  all  along;  and  would  speak  it  with  much 
cheerfulness,  and  fervor  of  spirit,  in  the  midst  of  his  pains. 
Again  he  said:  'I  would  be  willing  to  live  to  be  farther 
serviceable  to  God  and  His  People :  but  my  work  is  done. 
Yet  God  will  be  with  His  People.' 

"  He  was  very  restless  most  part  of  the  night,  speaking 
often  to  himself.  And  there  being  something  to  drkk 
offered  him,  he  was  desired  to  take  the  same,  and  endeavor 
to  sleep.  Unto  which  he  answered :  '  It  is  not  my  desire 
to  drink  or  sleep ;  but  my  design  is,  to  make  what  haste  I 
can  to  be  gone.' 

"  Afterwards,  towards  morning,  he  used  divers  holy  ex- 
pressions, implying  much  inward  consolation  and  peace; 


84  THOMAS  CARLYLE. 

among  the  rest  he  spake  some  exceeding  self-debasing 
words,  annihilating  and  judging  himself.  And  truly  it  was 
observed,  that  a  public  spirit  to  God's  Cause  did  breathe  in 
him,  —  as  in  his  lifetime  so  now  to  his  very  last." 

When  the  morrow's  sun  rose,  Oliver  was  speechlf -ss  ;  be- 
tween three  and  four  in  the  afternoon,  he  lay  dead.  Friday, 
3d  September,  1658.  "The  consternation  and  astonishment 
3f  all  people,"  writes  Fauconberg,  "  are  inexpressible  ;  their 
hearts  seem  as  if  sunk  within  them.  My  poor  Wife,  —  I 
know  not  what  on  earth  to  do  with  her.  When  seemingly 
quieted,  she  bursts  out  again  into  a  passion  that  tears  her 
very  heart  to  pieces."  Husht,  poor  weeping  Mary  !  Here 
is  a  Life-battle  right  nobly  done.  Seest  thou  not, 

The  storm  is  changed  into  a  calm, 

At  His  command  and  will ; 
So  that  the  waves  which  raged  before, 

Now  quiet  are  and  still ! 

Then  are  they  glad,  —  because  at  rest 

And  quiet  now  they  be : 
So  to  the  haven  He  them  brings 

Which  they  desired  to  see. 

"  Blessed  are  the  dead  that  die  in  the  Lord  " ;  blessed  are 
the  valiant  that  have  lived  in  the  Lord.  "  Amen,  saith  the 
Spirit,"  Amen.  "  They  do  rest  from  their  labors,  and  their 
works  follow  them." 

"  Their  works  follow  them."  As,  I  think,  this  Oliver 
Cromwell's  works  have  done,  and  are  still  doing  ?  We  have 
had  our  "  Revolutions  of  Eighty-eight,"  officially  called  "  glo- 
rious " ;  and  other  Revolutions  not  yet  called  glorious,  and 
somewhat  has  been  gained  for  poor  Mankind.  Men's  ears 
are  not  now  slit  off  by  rash  Officially ;  Officiality  will,  for 
long  henceforth,  be  more  cautious  about  men's  ears.  The 
tyrannous  Star-chambers,  branding-irons,  chimerical  Kings 
and  Surplices  at  All-hallowtide,  they  are  gone,  or  with  im- 


CROMWELL.  85 

mense  velocity  going,  Oliver's  works  do  follow  him !  —  The 
works  of  a  man,  bury  them  under  what  guano-mountains  and 
obscene  owl-droppings  you  will,  do  not  perish,  cannot  perish. 
What  of  Heroism,  what  of  Eternal  Light  was  in  a  Man 
and  his  Life,  is  with  very  great  exactness  added  to  the  Eter- 
nities, remains  forever  a  new  divine  portion  of  the  Sum  of 
Things  ;  and  no  owl's  voice,  this  way  or  that,  in  the  least, 
avails  in  the  matter.  But  we  have  to  end  here. 

Oliver  is  gone ;  and  with  him  England's  Puritanism, 
laboriously  built  together  by  this  man,  and  made  a  thing 
far-shining  miraculous  to  its  own  Century,  and  memorable 
to  all  the  Centuries,  soon  goes.  Puritanism,  without  its 
King,  is  h'ngless,  anarchic;  falls  into  dislocation,  self-col- 
lision ;  staggers,  plunges  into  ever  deeper  anarchy ;  King, 
Defender  of  the  Puritan  Faith  there  can  none  now  be 
found ;  —  and  nothing  is  left  but  to  recall  the  old  disowned 
Defender  with  the  remnants  of  his  Four  Surplices,  and 
Two  Centuries  of  ffypocrisis  (or  Play-acting  not  so  called), 
and  put  up  with  all  that,  the  best  we  may.  The  Genius  of 
England  no  longer  soars  Sunward,  world-defiant  like  an 
Eagle  through  the  storms,  "  mewing  her  mighty  youth,"  as 
John  Milton  saw  her  do:  the  Genius  of  England,  much 
more  like  a  greedy  Ostrich  intent  on  provender  and  a 
whole  skin  mainly,  stands  with  its  other  extremity  Sunward 
with  its  Ostrich-head  stuck  into  the  readiest  bush  of  old 
Church-tippets,  King-cloaks,  or  what  other  **  sheltering  Fal- 
lacy "  there  may  be,  and  so  awaits  the  issue.  The  issue  has 
been  slow ;  but  it  is  now  seen  to  have  been  inevitable. 
No  Ostrich,  intent  on  gross  terrene  provender,  and  sticking 
its  head  into  Fallacies,  but  will  be  awakened  one  day,  — 

in  a  terrible  a  posteriori  manner,  if  not  otherwise ! 

Awake  before  it  come  to  that !  God  and  man  bid  us  awake ! 
The  Voices  of  our  Fathers,  with  thousand-fold  stern  moni- 
tion to  one  and  all,  bid  us  awake. 


LITTLE  BELL. 

BY   T.  WESTWOOD. 

"  He  prayeth  well,  who  loveth  well 
Both  man  and  bird  and  beast." 

THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 

PIPED  the  Blackbird,  on  the  beech  wood  spray, 
"  Pretty  inaid,  slow  wandering  this  way, 

What 's  your  name  ?  "  quoth  he. 
"  What's  your  name  ?  Oh !  stop  and  straight  unfold, 
Pretty  inaid,  with  showery  curls  of  gold." 
"  Little  Bell,"  said  she. 

Little  Bell  sat  down  beneath  the  rocks, 
Tossed  aside  her  gleaming,  golden  locks, 

"  Bonny  bird ! "  quoth  she, 
"  Sing  me  your  best  song,  before  I  go." 
"  Here 's  the  very  finest  song,  I  know, 
Little  Bell,"  said  he. 

And  the  Blackbird  piped  —  you  never  heard 
Half  so  gay  a  song  from  any  bird ; 

Full  of  quips  and  wiles, 
Now  so  round  and  rich,  now  soft  and  slow, 
All  for  love  of  that  sweet  face  below, 

Dimpled  o'er  with  smiles. 

And  the  while  that  bonny  bird  did  pour 

His  full  heart  out,  freely,  o'er  and  o'er, 

'Neath  the  morning  skies, 


LITTLE   BELL.  87 

In  the  little  childish  heart  below, 

All  the  sweetness  seemed  to  grow  and  grow, 

And  shine  forth  in  happy  overflow 

From  the  brown,  bright  eyes. 

Down  the  dell  she  tripped,  and  through  the  glade  — 
Peeped  the  squirrel  from  the  hazel  shade, 

And,  from  out  the  tree, 

Swung  and  leaped  and  frolicked,  void  of  fear, 
While  bold  Blackbird  piped,  that  all  might  hear, 

"  Little  Bell ! "  piped  he. 

Little  Bell  sat  down  amid  the  fern : 

"  Squirrel,  Squirrel !  to  your  task  return  ; 

Bring  me  nuts ! "  quoth  she. 
Up,  away !  the  frisky  Squirrel  hies, 
Golden  wood-lights  glancing  in  his  eyes, 

And  adown  the  tree, 

Great  ripe  nuts,  kissed  brown  by  July  sun, 
In  the  little  lap  drop,  one  by  one — 
Hark !  how  Blackbird  pipes,  to  see  the  fun ! 

"  Happy  Bell ! "  pipes  he. 

Little  Bell  looked  up  and  down  the  glade : 
"  Squirrel,  Squirrel,  from  the  nut-tree  shade, 
Bonny  Blackbird,  if  you  're  not  afraid, 

Come  and  share  with  me ! " 
Down  came  Squirrel,  eager  for  his  fare, 
Down  came  bonny  Blackbird,  I  declare  ; 
Little  Bell  gave  each  his  honest  share  — 

Ah !  the  merry  three ! 

And  the  while  those  frolic  playmates  twain 
Piped  and  frisked  from  bough  to  bough  again, 
'Neath  the  morning  skies, 


88  T.  WESTWOOD. 

In  the  little  childish  heart  below, 

All  the  sweetness  seemed  to  grow  and  grow, 

And  shine  out  in  happy  overflow, 

From  her  brown,  bright  eyes. 

By  her  snow-white  cot,  at  close  of  day, 
Knelt  sweet  Bell,  with  folded  palms,  to  pray. 

Very  calm  and  clear 

Rose  the  praying  voice,  to  where,  unseen, 
In  blue  heaven,  an  angel  shape  serene 

Paused  awhile  to  hear. 

44  What  good  child  is  this,"  the  angel  said, 
"  That,  with  happy  heart,  beside  her  bed, 

Prays  so  lovingly  ?  " 
Low  and  soft,  oh !  very  low  and  soft, 
Crooned  the  Blackbird  in  the  orchard  croft, 

"  Bell,  dear  Bell ! "  crooned  he. 

"  Whom  God's  creatures  love,"  the  angel  fair 
Murmured,  "  God  doth  bless  with  angels'  care ; 

Child,  thy  bed  shall  be 

Folded  safe  from  harm ;  love,  deep  and  kind, 
Shall  watch  round  and  leave  good  gifts  behind, 

Little  Bell,  for  thee." 


THE  MORMON'S  WIFE. 

BY  ROSE   TEERY. 

" '  Woe  to  that  man/  his  warning  voice  replied 
To  all  who  questioned,  or  in  silence  sighed  — 
« Woe  to  that  man  who  ventures  truth  to  win, 
And  seeks  his  object  by  the  path  of  sin  ! ' "  — 

SCHILLER. 

DON'T  think  much,  my  young  friend,  of  those  Mor* 
mons  !  I  have  had  some  reasons  of  my  own  for  dislik- 
ing them ! "  said  Parson  Field  to  me,  as  we  sat  together,  one 
August  noon,  in  the  porch  of  his  red  house  at  Plainfield. 

"  Do  tell  me,  sir,"  said  I,  settling  myself  in  an  easy  atti- 
tude to  hear  his  story  —  for  a  story  from  Parson  Field  was 
not  to  be  despised  —  his  quaint  simplicity  bringing  out,  in 
old-time  and  expressive  phrases,  whatever  he  describes  with 
the  clear  fidelity  of  an  interior  by  Aliens.  "  Do  tell  me," 
said  I  again,  with  a  deeper  emphasis ;  whereat  the  old  gen- 
tleman looked  at  me  over  his  spectacles,  and,  smiling  benig- 
nantly  into  my  eager  face,  began. 

"  When  I  first  came  to  Plainfield,"  said  he,  "  more  than 
thirty  years  ago,  I  had  been  a  minister  of  the  Lord  only  tec 
years,  and  I  had  been  settled  for  that  period  of  time  in  a 
large  city,  where  I  served  acceptably  to  a  worthy  congre- 
gation ;  but  certain  reasons  of  my  own  induced  me  ..o  leave 
that  situation,  and  come  here  to  live,  where  also  I  found 
acceptance,  and  not  many  months  after  I  came  there  was  a 
considerable  reviving  of  the  work  in  this  place,  and  many 
believed.  Of  these  was  a  certain  Joseph  Frazer,  a  young 


90  ROSE   TERRY. 

Scotchman,  concerning  whom  I  felt  much  misgiving,  lest  he 
should  take  the  wrong  path ;  but  he,  in  due  season,  joined 
himself  to  the  church,  and  edified  the  brethren  in  walk  and 
conversation ;  so  that,  when  he  left  Plainfield  and  settled  in 
the  West  Indies,  we  were  loth  to  have  him  go. 

"  Some  years  afterwards  we  heard  he  was  married  there 
to  a  lady  of  Spanish  extraction,  and  a  Catholic ;  and,  after 
ten  years  elapsed,  she  died,  leaving  him  one  child,  a  daugh- 
ter, eight  years  of  age,  and  with  her  he  came  to  Plainfield, 
desiring  that  the  child,  whom  he  had  named  Adeline,  after 
his  own  mother,  should  have  a  New  England  training. 

"  But,  wonderful  are  the  ways  of  Providence !  On  his  re- 
turn to  Cuba,  he  perished  in  the  vessel,  which  went  down 
in  a  heavy  gale  off  Cape  Hatteras ;  and  when  the  news 
came  to  his  mother,  old  Mrs.  Frazer,  she  sent  for  me  that  I 
should  tell  the  child  Adeline,  for  she  had  given  proofs  of  a 
singular  nature,  ardent  and  self-confident  in  the  extreme. 
I  took  my  hat,  and  went  over  to  Mrs.  Frazer's,  with  a  very 
heavy  heart,  for  the  grief  of  a  child  is  a  fearful  thing  to  me, 
and  to  be  the  bringer  of  evil  tidings,  that  shall  stain  the 
pureness  and  calm  of  a  child's  thoughts  with  the  irreparable 
shadow  of  death,  is  no  light  thing,  nor  easily  to  be  done.  I 
entered  into  the  house  one  day  in  June :  it  was  a  very  sweet 
day,  and,  as  I  walked  quietly  into  the  low  kitchen,  I  saw 
Adeline,  with  her  head  resting  on  her  hands,  and  her  large 
eyes  eagerly  gazing  out  of  the  window  at  the  gambols  of  a 
scarlet-throated  humming-bird.  I  went  close  to  her,  and 
thought  to  myself  that  I  would  speak,  but  I  did  not,  for  I 
saw  that,  in  her  little  pale  face,  which  made  me  more  sad 
than  before ;  and  I  had  it  on  my  lips  to  say,  '  Adeline,  are 
you  homesick?'  (which  was  the  thing  of  all  others  I  should 
not  say)  when  suddenly  she  turned  about,  and  answered  the 
question  before  I  spoke  it. 

" '  Sir,'  said  she,  '  I  wish  I  was  in  Cuba.  I  had  just  such 
a  humming-bird  at  home ;  and  I  fed  it  with  orange  boughs 


THE  MORMON'S   WIFE.  91 

full  of  white  flowers,  every  day ;  but  you  have  no  orange 
trees  here,  and  I  have  no  papa ! ' 

"  It  seemed  to  me  that  the  child's  angel  had  thus  opened 
the  way  for  me  to  speak,  and  I  began  to  say  some  things 
about  the  love  of  our  universal  Father,  when  she  laid  her 
little  hand  on  my  arm  with  a  fearfully  strong  pressure. 
*  Mr.  Field,'  said  she,  l  is  my  papa  dead ! '  I  never  shall 
forget  the  eyes  that  looked  that  question  into  mine.  I  felt 
like  an  unveiled  spirit  before  their  eager,  piercing  stare.  I 
did  not  answer  except  by  a  strong  quiver  of  feeling  that 
would  run  over  my  features,  for  I  loved  her  father  even  as 
a  kinsman,  and  I  needed  to  say  nothing  more,  for  the  child 
fell  at  my  feet  quite  rigid,  and  I  called  Mrs.  Frazer,  who 
tried  all  her  nurse-arts  to  restore  little  Adeline;  but  was 
forced,  at  last,  to  send  for  a  physician,  who  bled  the  child, 
and  brought  her  round. 

"  In  the  mean  time  I  had  gone  home  to  prepare  my  ser- 
mon, for  it  was  not  yet  finished,  and  the  day  was  Friday ; 
but  I  kept  seeing  that  little  lifeless  face,  all  orphaned  as  it 
.was,  and  the  Scripture,  '  As  one  whom  his  mother  comfort- 
eth,'  was  so  borne  in  upon  my  mind,  that,  although  I  had 
previously  fixed  upon  one  adapted  to  a  setting  forth  of  the 
doctrine  of  election,  I  was  wrought  upon  to  make  the  other 
the  subject  of  my  discourse:  and  truly  the  people  wept; 
almost  all  but  Adeline,  who  sat  in  the  square  pew  with  her 
great  eyes  fixed  upon  me,  and  her  small  lips  apart,  like  one 
who  drinks  from  the  stream  of  a  rock. 

"  The  next  day  I  was  resting,  as  my  custom  is,  after  the 
Sabbath ;  and  in  a  warm,  fair  day,  I  find  no  better  rest  than 
to  sit  by  the  open  window,  and  breathe  the  summer  air,  and 
fill  my  eyes  and  heart  with  the  innumerable  love-tokens  that 
God  hath  set  thickly  in  Nature.  I  was,  therefore,  at  my 
usual  place,  wrapt  in  thought,  and  beholding  the  labors  of  a 
small  bird  which  taught  her  young  to  fly,  when  I  felt  a 
light,  cold  touch,  and,  turning,  saw  little  Adeline  beside  me, 


92  ROSE   TERRY. 

*  Sir,'  said  she,  without  any  preface,  <  when  my  papa  went 
away,  he  left  with  me  a  letter,  which  he  said  I  was  to  give 
you  if  he  died.'  So  far  she  spoke  steadily,  but  there  the 
small  voice  quivered,  and  broke  down.  I  took  the  letter 
she  proffered  me,  and,  breaking  the  seal,  found  it  a  short 
but  touching  appeal  to  me,  as  the  spiritual  father  of  Joseph 
Frazer,  to  take  his  own  child  under  my  care,  and  be  as  a 
father  to  her,  inasmuch  as  his  mother  was  old  and  feeble, 
and  also  to  be  executor  of  his  will,  of  which  a  copy  was  en- 
closed. I  said  this  much  to  the  child  as  shortly  as  I  could, 
and  with  her  grave  voice  she  replied,  '  Sir,  I  should  like  to 
be  your  little  girl,  if  you  will  preach  me  some  more  ser- 
mons.' Now  I  was  affected  at  this  answer ;  not  the  less 
that  the  leaven  of  pride,  which  worketh  in  every  man,  was 
fed  by  even  a  baby's  praise ;  and,  putting  on  my  hat,  I 
walked  over  to  Mrs.  Frazer's  house  and  laid  the  matter  be- 
fore her.  She  was  not,  at  first,  willing  to  give  Adeline  up, 
but  at  length,  after  much  converse  to  and  fro,  she  came  to 
my  conclusion,  that  the  child  would  be  better  in  my  hands, 
inasmuch  as  she  herself  could  not  hope  for  a  long  continu- 
ance :  and  as  it  was  ordered,  she  died  the  next  summer.  I 
sent  for  my  sister  Martha,  who  was  somewhat  past  mar- 
riageable years,  but  kind  and  good,  to  come  and  keep  house 
for  me,  and  from  that  time  Adeline  was  as  my  own  child. 
But  I  must  hasten  over  a  time,  for  I  am  too  long  in  telling 
this. 

"  In  course  of  years  the  child  grew  up,  tall  and  slender, 
of  a  very  stately  carriage,  and  having  that  Scriptural  glory 
of  a  woman,  long  and  abundant  hair. 

"  She  was  still  very  fervid  in  her  feelings,  but  reserved 
and  proud,  and  I  fear  I  had  been  too  tender  with  her  for 
her  good,  inasmuch  as  she  thought  her  own  will  and  pleasure 
must  always  be  fulfilled ;  and  we  all  know  that  is  not  one  of 
the  ordinations  of  Providence. 

"  As  Adeline  came  to  be  a  woman,  divers  youths  of  my 


THE  MORMON'S    WIFE.  93 

congregation  were  given  to  call  of  a  Sabbath  night,  with 
red  apples  for  me,  and  redder  cheeks  for  Adeline,  who  was 
scarcely  civil  to  them,  and  often  left  them  to  my  conversa- 
tion, which  they  seemed  not  to  relish  so  much  as  would 
have  been  pleasing  to  human  nature. 

"  But  my  sainted  mother,  who  was  not  wanting  in  the 
wisdom  of  this  world,  was  used  to  say  that  every  man  and 
woman  had  their  time  of  crying  for  the  moon,  and  while 
some  knew  it  to  be  a  burning  fire,  and  others  scornfully 
called  it  cheese,  and  if  they  got  it,  either  burned  their  fin- 
gers, or  despised  their  desire,  still  all  generations  must  have 
their  turn,  and  truly  I  believed  it,  when  I  found  that  Ade- 
line herself  began  to  have  a  pining  for  something  which  I 
could  not  persuade  her  to  specify.  The  child  grew  thin  and 
pale,  and  ceased  the  singing  of  psalms  at  her  daily  task,  and 
I  could  not  devise  what  should  be  done  for  her;  though 
Martha  strongly  recommended  certain  herb  teas,  which  Ade- 
line somewhat  unreasonably  rebelled  against.  However, 
about  this  time,  my  attention  was  a  little  turned  from  her, 
as  there  was  much  religious  awakening  in  the  place,  and 
among  others,  whom  the  deacons  singled  out  as  special  ob- 
jects of  attention,  was  one  John  Henderson,  a  frequent  vis- 
itor at  our  house,  and  a  young  man  of  good  parts  and  kindly 
feeling,  as  it  seemed,  but  of  a  peculiar  nature,  being  easily 
led  into  either  right  or  wrong,  yet  still  given  to  fits  of  stub- 
bornness, when  he  could  not  be  drawn,  so  to  speak,  with  a 
cart-rope. 

"  Now  Adeline  had  been  a  professor  of  religion  for  some 
years,  but  it  did  not  seem  to  me  that  she  took  a  right  view 
of  this  particular  season,  for  many  times  she  refused  to  go 
to  the  prayer-meetings,  even  to  those  which  were  held  with 
special  intentions  towards  the  unconverted ;  and  many  times, 
on  my  return,  I  found  her  with  pale  cheeks  and  red  eyes, 
evidently  from  tears.  About  this  time,  also,  she  began  to 
take  long,  solitary  walks,  from  which  she  returned  with  hei 


94  ROSE    TERRY. 

hands  full  of  wild  flowers,  for  it  was  now  early  spring ;  but 
she  cared  nothing  for  the  flowers,  and  would  scatter  them 
about  the  house  to  fade,  without  a  thought.  In  the  mean 
time,  the  revival  progressed,  but,  I  lament  to  say,  with  no 
visible  change  in  John  Henderson.  He  had  gotten  into  one 
of  his  stubborn  moods  of  mind,  and  neither  heaven  nor  hell 
seemed  to  affect  him.  The  only  softening  I  could  perceive 
in  the  young  man  was  during  the  singing  of  hymns,  which 
was  well  done  in  our  meeting-house,  for  Adeline  led  the 
choir,  and  I  noticed  that,  whenever  that  part  of  the  exercises 
began,  John  Henderson  would  lift  up  his  head,  and  a  strange 
color  and  tender  expression  seemed  to  melt  the  hard  lines 
of  his  face. 

"  Somewhere  about  the  latter  end  of  April,  as  I  was  re- 
turning from  a  visit  to  a  sick  man,  I  met  John  coming  from 
a  piece  of  woods,  that  lay  behind  my  house  about  a  mile, 
with  his  hands  full  of  liverwort  blossoms.  I  do  not  know 
why  this  little  circumstance  gave  me  comfort,  yet,  I  have 
ever  observed,  that  a  man  who  loves  the  manifestations  of 
God  in  his  works  is  more  likely  to  be  led  into  religion  than 
a  brutal  or  a  mere  business  man  :  so  1  was  desirous  of 
speaking  to  the  youth,  but  when  he  saw  me  he  turned  from 
the  straight  path,  and,  like  an  evil-doer,  fled  across  the 
fields  another  way.  I  did  not  call  after  him,  for  some  ex- 
perience has  constrained  me  to  think  that  there  is  no  little 
wisdom  in  sometimes  letting  people  alone,  but  I  took  my 
own  way  home,  and  having  put  on  my  cloth  shoes  to  ease 
my  feet,  and  being  in  somewhat  of  a  maze  of  thought,  I 
went  up  to  my  study,  as  it  seemed,  very  quietly,  for  I  en- 
tered at  the  open  door  and  found  Adeline  sitting  in  my  arm- 
chair by  the  window,  quite  unaware  of  my  nearness.  I 
well  remember  how  like  a  spirit*  she  looked  that  day,  with 
her  great  eyes  raised  to  a  cloud  that  rested  in  the  bright 
sky,  her  soft  black  hair  twisted  into  a  crown  about  her 
head,  and  her  light  dress  falling  all  over  the  chair,  while  in 


THE  MORMON'S   WIFE.  .95 

her  hands,  lying  between  the  slight  fingers,  and  by  the  bluer 
veins,  was  clasped  a  bunch  of  liverwort  blossoms.  Then  I 
perceived,  for  the  first  time,  why  my  child  was  crying  for  the 
moon,  and  that  John  Henderson  cared  for  the  singing  and 
not  for  the  hymns,  at  which  I  sorrowed.  But  I  sat  down 
by  Ada,  and  taking  the  flowers  out  of  her  cold  hands,  began 
to  say  that  I  had  met  John  Henderson  on  the  road  with 
some  such  blossoms,  at  which  she  looked  at  me  even  as  she 
did  when  I  told  her  about  her  father,  and,  seeing  that  I 
smiled,  and  yet  was  not  dry-eyed,  nor  quite  at  rest,  the  tears 
began,  slowly,  to  run  over  her  eyelashes,  and  in  a  few  very 
resolute  words,  she  told  me  that  Mr.  Henderson  had  asked 
her  that  morning  to  marry  him. 

"Xow  I  knew  not  well  what  to  say,  but  I  set  myself 
aside,  as  far  as  I  could,  and  tried  not  to  remember  how  sore 
a  trial  it  would  be  to  part  with  Ada,  and  I  reasoned  with 
her  calmly  about  the  youth,  setting  forth,  first,  that  he  was 
not  a  professing  Christian,  and  that  the  Scripture  seemed 
plain  to  me  on  that  matter,  though  I  would  not  constrain 
her  conscience  if  she  found  it  clear  in  this  thing ;  and,  sec- 
ond, that  he  was  a  man  who  held  fast  to  this  world's  goods, 
and  was  like  to  be  a  follower  of  Mammon  if  he  learned  not 
to  love  better  things  in  his  youth  ;  and,  third,  that  he  was  a 
man  who  had,  as  one  might  say,  a  streak  of  granite  in  his 
nature,  against  which  a  feeling  person  would  continually  fall 
and  be  hurt,  and  which  no  person  could  work  upon,  if  once 
it  came  in  the  way  even  of  right  action.  To  all  this  Ade- 
line answered  with  more  reason  than  I  supposed  a  woman 
could,  only  that  I  noticed,  at  the  end  of  each  answer,  she 
said  in  a  low  voice,  as  if  it  were  the  end  of  all  contention,  — 
'and  I  love  him.'  Whereby,  seeing  that  the  thing  was  well 
past  my  interference,  I  gave  my  consent  with  many  doubts 
and  fears  in  my  heart,  and,  having  blessed  the  child,  I  sent 
her  away  that  I  might  meditate  over  this  matter. 

"When  John  came  in  the  evening  for  his  answer,  I  was 


%  ROSE   TERRY. 

enabled  to  exhort  him  faithfully,  and,  in  his  softened  state  of 
feeling,  he  chose  to  tell  me  that  he  had  been  seeking  relig- 
ion because  he  feared  I  would  not  give  him  Adeline  unless 
he  were  joined  to  the  church,  and  he»could  not  make  a  hyp- 
ocrite of  himself,  even  for  that,  but  he  had  hoped  that  in  the 
use  of  means  he  might  be  awakened  and  converted.  At 
this  I  was  pleased,  inasmuch  as  it  showed  a  spirit  of  truth 
in  the  young  man,  but  I  could  not  avoid  setting  before  him 
that  self-seeking  had  never  led  any  soul  to  God,  and  how 
cogent  a  reason  he  had  himself  given  for  his  want  of  success 
in  things  pertaining  to  his  salvation ;  but  as  I  spoke  Ada 
came  in  by  the  other  door,  and  John's  eyes  began  to  wander 
so  visibly,  that  I  thought  it  best  to  conclude,  and  I  must  say 
he  appeared  grateful.  So  I  went  out  of  the  door,  leaving 
Ada  stately  and  blushing  as  a  fair  rose-tree,  notwithstanding 
that  John  Henderson  seemed  to  fancy  she  needed  his  sup- 
port. 

"  As  the  year  went  on,  and  I  could  not  in  conscience  let 
Adeline  leave  me  until  her  lover  had  some  fixed  mainte- 
nance, I  had  many  conversations  with  him,  (for  he  also  was 
an  orphan,)  and  it  was  at  length  decided  that  he  should  buy, 
with  Ada's  portion,  a  goodly  farm  in  Western  New  York ; 
and  in  the  ensuing  summer,  after  a  year's  engagement,  they 
were  to  marry.  So  the  summer  came ;  I  know  not  exactly 
what  month  was  fixed  for  their  marriage,  though  I  have  the 
date  somewhere,  but  one  thing  I  recollect,  that  the  hop-vine 
over  this  porch  was  in  full  bloom,  and  after  I  had  joined  my 
child  and  the  youth  in  the  bands  of  wedlock,  I  went  out  into 
the  porch  to  see  them  safe  into  the  carriage  that  was  to  take 
them  to  the  boat,  and  there  Ada  put  her  arms  about  my 
neck,  and  kissed  me  for  good-by,  leaving  a  hot  tear  upon  my 
cheek ;  and  a  south  wind  at  that  moment  smote  the  hop- 
vine  so  that  its  odor  of  honey  and  bitterness  mingled  swept 
across  my  face,  and  always  afterward  this  scent  made  me 
think  of  Adeline.  After  two  years  had  passed  away,  during 


THE   MORMON'S   WIFE.  97 

which  we  heard  from  her  often,  we  heard  that  she  had .  a 
little  daughter  born,  and  her  letters  were  full  of  joy  and 
pride,  so  that  I  trembled  for  the  child's  spiritual  state ;  but 
after  some  three  years  the  little  girl  with  her  mother  came 
to  Phinfield,  and  I  did  not  know  but  Adeline  was  excusa- 
ble in  her  joy,  for  such  a  fair  and  bright  child  was  scarcely 
ever  seen ;  but  the  next  summer  came  sad  news :  little 
Nelly  was  dead,  and  Ada's  grief  seemed  inexhaustible, 
while  her  husband  fell  into  one  of  his  sullen  states  of  mind, 
and  the  affliction  passed  over  them  to  no  good  end,  as  it 
seemed. 

"  Soon  after  this,  the  Mormon  delusion  began  to  spread 
rapidly  about  John  Henderson's  dwelling-place,  and  in  less 
than  a  year  after  Nelly's  death  I  had  a  letter  from  Ada, 
dated  at  St.  Louis,  which  I  will  read  to  you,  for  I  have  it 
in  my  pocket-book,  having  retained  it  there  since  yesterday, 
when  I  took  it  out  from  the  desk  to  consult  a  date. 

"  It  begins :  —  *  Dear  Uncle,'  (I  had  always  instructed 
the  child  so  to  call  me,  rather  than  father,  seeing  we  can 
have  but  one  father,  while  we  may  be  blessed  with  nume- 
rous uncles)  '  I  suppose  you  will  wonder  how  I  came  to  be 
at  St.  Louis,  and  it  is  just  my  being  here  that  I  write  to 
explain.  You  know  how  my  husband  felt  about  Nelly's 
death,  but  you  cannot  know  how  I  felt ;  for,  even  in  my 
very  great  sorrow,  I  hoped  all  the  time,  that  by  her  death, 
John  might  be  led  to  a  love  of  religion.  He  was  very  un- 
happy, but  he  would  not  show  it,  only  that  he  took  even 
more  tender  care  of  me  than  before.  I  have  always  been 
his  darling  and  pride;  he  never  let  me  work,  because  he 
said  ifc  spoiled  my  hands ;  but  after  Nelly  died,  he  was 
hardly  willing  I  should  breathe  ;  and  though  he  never  spoke 
of  her,  or  seemed  to  feel  her  loss,  yet  I  have  heard  him. 
whisper  her  name  in  his  sleep,  and  every  morning  his  hair 
and  pillow  were  damp  with  crying ;  but  he  never  knew  I 
saw  it.  After  a  few  months,  there  came  a  Mormon  preacher 

5  G 


98  ROSE   TERRY. 

into  cur  neighborhood,  a  man  of  a  great  deal  of  lalent 
and  earnestness,  and  a  firm  believer  in  the  revelation  to 
Joseph  Smith.  At  first  my  husband  did  not  take  any 
notice  of  him,  and  then  he  laughed  at  him  for  being  a  be- 
liever in  what  seemed  like  nonsense ;  but  one  night  he  was 
persuaded  to  go  and  hear  Brother  Marvin  preach  in  the 
school-house,  and  he  came  home  with  a  very  sober  face.  I 
said  nothing,  but  when  I  found  there  was  to  be  a  meeting 
the  next  night,  I  asked  to  go  with  him,  and,  to  my  surprise, 
I  heard  a  most  powerful  and  exciting  discourse,  not  wanting 
in  either  sense  or  feeling,  though  rather  poor  as  to  argu- 
ment; but  I  was  not  surprised  that  John  wanted  to  hear 
more,  nor  that,  in  the  course  of  a  few  weeks,  he  avowed 
himself  a  Mormon,  and  was  received  publicly  into  the  sect. 
Dear  Uncle,  you  will  be  shocked,  I  know,  and  you  will  won- 
der why  I  did  not  use  my  influence  over  my  husband,  to 
keep  him  from  this  delusion ;  but  you  do  not  know  how 
much  I  have  longed  and  prayed  for  his  conversion  to  a  re- 
ligious life;  until  any  religion,  even  one  full  of  errors, 
seemed  to  me  better  than  the  hardened  and  listless  state  of 
his  mind. 

"  *  I  could  not  but  feel,  that  if  he  were  awakened  to  a 
sense  of  the  life  to  come,  in  any  way,  his  own  good  sense 
would  lead  him  right  in  the  end ;  and  there  is  so  much  ar- 
dor and  faith  about  this  strange  belief,  that  I  do  not  regret 
his  having  fallen  in  with  it,  for  I  think  the  true  burning  of 
Gospel  faith  will  yet  be  kindled  by  means  of  this  strange  fire. 
In  the  mean  time  he  is  very  eager  and  full  of  zeal  for  the 
cause,  so  much  so,  that  thinking  it  to  be  his  duty,  he  resolved 
to  sell  our  farm  at  Oakwood,  and  remove  to  Utah.  If  any- 
thing could  make  me  grieve  over  a  change,  I  believe  to  be 
for  John's  spiritual  good,  it  would  be  this  idea :  but  no  re- 
gret or  sorrow  of  mine  shall  ever  stand  in  the  way  of  his 
soul ;  so  I  gave  as  cheerful  a  consent  as  I  could  to  the  sale, 
and  I  only  cried  a  few  tears,  over  little  Nelly's  bed,  under 


THE   MORMON'S   WIFE.  99 

the  great  tulip-tree.  There  my  husband  has  put  an  iron 
railing,  and  I  have  planted  a  great  many  sweet-brier  vines 
over  the  rock  ;  and  Mr.  Keeney,  who  bought  the  farm,  has 
promised  that  the  spot  shall  be  kept  free  from  weeds,  so  I 
leave  her  in  peace.  Do  write  to  me,  Uncle  Field.  I  feel 
sure  I  have  done  right,  because  it  has  not  been  in  my  own 
way,  yet  sometimes  I  am  almost  afraid.  I  shall  be  very 
far  away  from  you,  and  from  home,  and  my  child ;  but  I 
am  so  glad  now  she  is  in  heaven,  nothing  can  trouble  her, 
and  I  shall  not  much  care  about  myself,  if  John  goes  right. 
" '  Give  my  love  to  Aunt  Martha,  and  please  write  to 
your  dear  child. 

« *  ADA  HENDERSON.  " 

"I  need  not  say,  my  young  friend,"  resumed  Parson 
Field,  wiping  his  spectacles,  and  clearing  his  voice  with  a 
vigorous  ahem ! !  "  that  I  could  not,  in  conscience,  approve 
of  Adeline's  course.  *  Thou  shalt  not  do  evil  that  good  may 
come,'  is  a  Gospel  truth,  and  cannot  be  transgressed  with 
good  consequences.  I  did  write  to  Ada ;  but,  inasmuch  as 
the  act  was  done,  I  said  not  much  concerning  it,  but  bade 
her  take  courage,  seeing  that  she  had  meant  to  do  right, 
although  in  the  deed  she  had  considered  John  Henderson 
before  anything  else,  which  was,  as  you  may  perceive,  her 
besetting  sin,  and  therefore  it  seemed  good  to  me  to  put,  at 
the  end  of  my  epistle,  (as  I  was  wont  always  to  offer  a  suit- 
able text  of  Scripture  for  her  meditation,)  these  words, 
'  Little^  children,  keep  yourselves  from  idols ! '  I  did  not 
hear  again  from  Adeline,  till  she  had  been  two  months  in 
the  Mormon  city,  and  though  she  tried  her  best  to  seem 
contented  and  peaceful,  in  view  of  John's  new  zeal,  and  his 
tender  care  of  her,  still  I  could  not  but  think  of  the  hop- 
blossoms,  for  I  perceived,  underneath  this  present  sweet- 
ness, a  little  drop  of  life  and  pain  working  to  some  unseen 
end.  That  year  passed  away  and  we  heard  no  more,  and 


100  ROSE   TERRY. 

the  next  also,  at  which  I  wondered  much;  but,  reflecting 
on  the  chances  of  travel  across  those  deserts,  and  having  a 
surety  of  Ada's  affection  for  me,  I  did  not  repine,  though  I 
felt  some  regret  that  there  was  such  uncertainty  of  carriage ; 
nevertheless,  I  wrote  as  usual,  that  no  chance  might  be  lost. 
"  The  third  summer  was  unusually  warm  in  our  parts,  and 
its  heats  following  upon  a  long,  wet  spring,  caused  much  and 
grievous  sickness,  and  I  was  obliged  to  be  out  at  all  hours 
with  the  dying,  and  at  funerals,  so  that  my  bodily  strength 
was  wellnigh  exhausted,  and  at  haying-time,  just  as  I  was 
cutting  the  last  swarth  on  my  river  meadow,  which  is  low- 
lying  land,  and  steamed  with  hot  vapor  as  I  laid  it  bare  to 
the  sun,  I  fell  forward  across  my  scythe-snath  and  fainted. 
This  was  the  beginning  of  a  long  course  of  fever,  of  a  ty- 
phoid character,  during  which  I  was  either  stupid  or  deliri- 
ous most  of  the  time,  and,  while  I  lay  sick,  there  came  a 
letter  to  me,  from  Salt  Lake  city,  written  chiefly  by  John 
Henderson,  who  begged  me  to  come  on  if  it  was  a  possible 
thing  and  see  his  wife,  who  was  wasting  with  a  slow  con- 
sumption, and  much  bent  upon  seeing  me.  I  could  discern 
that  the  letter  was  not  willingly  written ;  it  was  stiff  in 
speech,  though  writ  with  a  trembling  hand.  At  the  end  of 
it  were  a  few  lines  from  Ada  herself;  a  very  impatient  and 
absolute  cry  for  me,  as  if  she  could  not  die  till  I  came. 
Now  Martha  had  opened  this  letter,  as  she  was  forced  to  by 
my  great  illness,  and,  having  read  it,  asked  the  doctor  if  it 
was  well  to  propound  the  contents  to  me,  and  he  said  decid- 
edly that  he  could  not  answer  for  my  life  if  she  did :  so 
Martha,  like  a  considerate  woman,  wrote  an  answer  herself 
to  John  Henderson  (of  which  she  kept  a  copy  for  me  to 
see),  setting  forth  that  I  was  in  no  state  to  be  moved  with 
such  tidings ;  that,  however,  I  should  have  the  letter  as 
soon  as  the  doctor  saw  fit,  and  sending  her  love  and  sym- 
pathy to  Ada,  and  a  recommend  that  she  should  try  balm 
tea. 


THE   MORMON'S   WIFE.  101 

u  After  a  long  season  of  suspense,  I  was  graciously  up- 
lifted from  fever,  and  enabled  to  leave  my  bed  for  a  few 
hours  daily ;  and,  when  I  could  ride  out,  which  was  only 
by  the  latter  end  of  October,  I  was  given  the  child's  letter, 
and  my  heart  sank  within  me,  for  I  knew  how  bitterly  she 
had  needed  my  strength  to  help  her.  It  was  a  warm  au- 
tumn day,  near  to  noon,  when  I  read  that  letter,  and,  as  I 
leaned  back  in  my  chair,  the  red  sunshine  came  in  upon  me, 
and  the  smell  of  dead  leaves,  while  upon  the  hop-vine  one 
late  blossom,  spared  by  the  white  frosts,  and  dropping  across 
the  window,  also  put  forth  its  scent,  bringing  Adeline,  as  it 
were,  right  back  into  my  arms,  and  the  faintness  passed 
away  from  me  with  some  tears,  for  I  was  weak,  and  a  man 
may  not  always  be  stronger  than  his  nature.  Now,  when 
Martha  sounded  the  horn  for  dinner,  and  our  hired  man 
came  in  from  the  hill-lot,  where  he  was  sowing  wheat,  I  saw 
that  he  had  a  letter  in  his  hand  of  great  size  and  thickne.-s ; 
and,  coming  into  the  keeping-room  where  I  sat,  he  said  that 
Squire  White  had  brought  it  over  from  the  Post-office  as  he 
came  along,  thinking  I  would  like  to  have  it  directly.  I 
was  rather  loth  to  open  the  great  packet  at  first,  for  I  be- 
thought myself  it  was  likely  to  be  some  Consociation  pro- 
ceedings, which  were  never  otherwise  than  irksome  to  me, 
and  were  now  weary  to  think  of,  seeing  the  grasshopper 
had  become  a  burden.  I  reached  my  spectacles  down  from 
the  nail,  and  found  the  post-mark  to  be  that  of  the  Mormon 
city ;  and-with  unsteady  hand  I  opened  the  seal,  and  found 
within  several  sheets  of  written  letter-paper,  directed  to  me 
in  Ada's  writing,  and  a  short  letter  from  Johr  Henderson, 
which  ran  thus :  — 

U<DEAR  SIR,— 

"'My  first  wife,  Adeline  Frazer  Henderson,  departed 
this  life  on  the  sixth  of  July,  at  my  house  in  the  city  of 
Great  Salt  Lake.  Shortly  before  dying  she  called  upon 


102  ROSE   TERRY 

me,  in  the  presence  of  two  sisters,  and  one  of  the  Saints,  to 
deliver  into  your  hands  the  enclosed  packet,  and  tell  you  of 
her  death.  According  to  her  wish,  I  send  the  papers  by 
mail ;  and,  hoping  you  may  yet  be  called  to  be  a  partaker 
in  the  faith  of  the  saints  below,  I  remain  your  afflicted,  yet 
rejoicing  friend, 

"  *  JOHN  HENDERSON.  ' 

"  I  was  really  stunned  for  a  moment,  my  young  friend, 
not  only  with  grief  at  my  own  loss,  but  with  pity  and  sur- 
prise at  the  entire  deadening,  as  it  appeared,  of  natural  af- 
fection in  the  man  to  whom  I  had  given  my  daughter ;  and 
also  my  conscience  was  not  free  from  offence,  for  I  could 
not  but  think  that  a  more  fervent  and  wrestling  expostula- 
tion, on  the  sin  of  marrying  an  unbeliever,  might  have  saved 
Adeline  from  sorrow  in  the  flesh.  However,  I  said  as 
much  as  seemed  best  at  the  time,  and  upon  that  reflection  I 
rested  myself ;  for  he  who  adheres  to  a  pure  intention,  need 
not  repent  of  his  deeds  afterward ;  and  the  next  day,  when 
my  present  anguish  and  weakness  had  somewhat  abated,  I 
read  the  manuscript  Ada  had  sent  me. 

"  It  was,  doubtless,  penned  with  much  reluctance,  for  the 
child's  natural  pride  was  great,  and  no  less  weighty  subject 
than  her  husband's  salvation  could  have  forced  her  to  speak 
of  what  she  wrote  for  me :  and,  indeed,  I  should  feel  no 
right  to  put  the  confidence  into  your  hands,  'were  not  my 
child  beyond  the  reach  of  man's  judgment,  and  did  I  not  feel 
it  a  sacred  duty  to  protest,  so  long  as  life  lasts,  against  this 
abominable  Mormon  delusion,  and  the  no  less  delusive  pre- 
text of  doing  evil  that  good  may  come.  I  cannot  read 
Ada's  letter  aloud  to  you,  for  there  is  to  be  a  funeral  at  two 
o'clock,  which  I  must  attend ;  but  I  will  give  you  the  pa- 
pers, and  you  may  sit  in  my  chair  and  read ;  only,  be 
patient  with  my  bees,  if  they  come  too  near  you,  for  they 
like  the  hop-blossoms,  and  never  sting  unless  you  strike. " 


THE  MORMON'S  WIFE.  108 

So  saying,  Parson  Field  gave  me  his  leathern  chair  and 
the  papers,  and  I  sat  down  in  the  hop-crowned  porch,  to 
read  Adeline  Henderson's  story,  with  a  sort  of  reverence  for 
her  that  prompted  me  to  turn  the  rustling  pages  carefully, 
and  feel  startled  if  a  door  swung  to  in  the  quiet  house,  as  if 
I  were  eavesdropping ;  but  soon  I  ceased  to  hear,  absorbed 
in  her  letter,  which  began  as  the  first  did. 

"  DEAR  UNCLE,  — 

"  To-day  I  begged  John  to  write,  and  ask  you  to  come 
here.  I  could  not  write  you  since  I  came  here  but  that 
once,  though  your  letters  have  been  my  great  comfort,  and 
I  added  a  few  words  of  entreaty  to  his,  because  I  am  dying, 
and  it  seems  as  if  I  must  see  you  before  I  die  ;  yet  I  fear 
the  letter  may  not  reach  you,  or  you  may  be  sick :  and  for 
that  reason  I  write  now,  to  tell  you  how  terrible  a  necessity 
urged  me  to  persuade  you  to  such  a  journey.  I  can  write 
but  little  at  a  time,  my  side  is  so  painful ;  they  call  it  slow- 
consumption  here,  but  I  know  better ;  the  heart  within  me 

is  turned  to  stone,  I  felt  it  then Ah !  you  see  my  mind 

wandered  in  that  last  line ;  it  still  will  return  to  the  old 
theme,  like  a  fugue  tune,  such  as  we  had  in  the  Plainfield 
singing-school.  I  remember  one  that  went,  '  The  Lord  is 
just,  is  just,  is  just.'  —  Is  He?  Dear  Uncle,  I  must  begin 
at  the  beginning,  or  you  never  will  know.  I  wrote  you  from 
St.  Louis,  did  I  not  ?  I  meant  to.  From  there,  we  had  a 
dreary  journey,  not  so  bad  to  Fort  Leaven  worth,  but  after 
that  inexpressibly  dreary,  and  set  with  tokens  of  the  dead, 
who  perished  before  us.  A  long  reach  of  prairie,  day  after 
day,  and  night  after  night ;  grass,  and  sky,  and  graves  ; 
grass,  and  sky,  and  graves ;  till  I  hardly  knew  whether  the 
life  I  dragged  along  was  life  or  death,  as  the  thirsty,  fever- 
ish days  wore  on  into  the  awful  and  breathless  nights,  when 
every  creature  was  dead  asleep,  and  the  very  stars  in  heaven 
grew  dim  in  the  hot,  sleepy  air  —  dreadful  days  I  I  was 


104  ROSE    TERRY. 

too  glad  to  see  that  bitter  inland  sea,  blue  as  the  fresh  lakes, 
with  its  gray  islands  of  bare  rock,  and  sparkling  sand  shores, 
still  more  rejoiced  to  come  upon  the  City  itself,  the  rows  of 
quaint,  bare  houses,  and  such  cool  water-courses,  and,  over 
all,  near  enough  to  rest  both  eyes  and  heart,  the  sunlit 
mountains,  'the  shadow  of  a  great  rock  in  a  weary  land.' 

"  I  liked  my  new  house  well.  It  was  too  large  for  our 
need,  but  pleasanter  for  its  airiness,  and  the  first  thing  I  did 
was  to  plant  a  little  hop-vine,  that  I  had  brought  all  the  way 
with  such  great  care,  by  the  east  porch.  I  wanted  some- 
thing like  Plainfield  in  my  home.  I  don't  know  why  I  lin- 
ger so,  I  must  write  faster,  for  I  grow  weak  all  the  time. 

"  I  liked  the  City  very  well  for  awhile ;  the  neighbors 
were  kind,  and  John  more  than  that;  I  could  not  be  un- 
happy with  him 1  thought.  We  had  a  pretty  garden, 

for  another  man  had  owned  the  house  before  us,  and  we 
had  not  to  begin  everything.  Our  next  door  neighbor,  Mrs. 
Colton,  was  good  and  kind  to  me,  so  was  her  daughter 
Lizzy,  a  pretty  girl,  with  fair  hair,  —  very  fair.  I  wonder 
John  liked  it  after  mine.  The  first  great  shock  I  had  was 
at  a  Mormon  meeting.  I  cannot  very  well  remember  the 
ceremony,  because  I  grew  so  faint ;  but  I  would  not  faint 
away  lest  some  one  should  see  me.  I  only  remember  that  it 
was  Mrs.  Colton's  husband  with  another  wife  being  "sealed" 
to  him,  as  they  say  here.  You  don't  know  what  that  means, 
Uncle  Field ;  it  is  one  part  of  this  religion  of  Satan,  that 
any  man  may  have,  if  he  will,  three  or  four  wives,  perhaps 
more.  I  only  know  that  shameless  man,  with  grown  daugh- 
ters, and  the  hair  on  his  head  snow-white,  has  taken  two, 
and  his  own  wife,  a  firm  believer  in  this  —  faith !  looks  on 
calmly,  and  lives  with  them  in  peace.  I  know  that,  and  my 
soul  sickened  with  disgust,  but  I  did  not  fear ;  not  a  thought, 
not  a  dream,  not  a  shadow  of  fear  crossed  me.  I  should 
have  despised  myself  forever  if  the  idea  had  stained  my 
soul;  my  husband  was  my  husband  —  mine  —  before  God 


THE   MORMON'S   WIFE  105 

and  man !  and  our  child  was  in  heaven ;  how  glad  I  was 
she  could  never  be  a  Mormon ! 

"  I  was  sorry  for  Mrs.  Colton,  though  she  did  not  need  it, 
and  when  I  saw  John  leaning  over  their  gate,  or  smoking  in 
the  porch  with  the  old  man,  I  thought  he  felt  so,  too,  and  I 
was  glad  to  see  him  more  sociable  than  ever  he  was  in  the 
States.-  After  awhile  he  did  not  smoke,  but  talked  with 
Elder  Colton,  and  then  would  come  home  and  expound  out 
of  the  book  of  Mormon  to  me.  I  was  very  glad  to  have 
frim  earnest  in  his  religion,  but  I  could  not  be.  Then  he 
grew  very  thoughtful,  and  had  a  silent  fit,  but  I  took  no 
notice  of  it,  though  I  think  now  he  meant  to  leave  me,  but 
I  began  to  pine  a  little  for  home,  and  when  I  worked  in  the 
garden,  and  trained  the  vines  about  our  veranda,  I  used  to 
wish  he  would  help  me  as  he  did  Lizzy  Colton,  but  I  still 
remembered  how  good  he  was  to  pity  and  help  them. 

"  O  fool !  yet,  I  had  rather  be  a  fool  over  again  than 
have  imagined  —  that  I  am  glad  of,  even  now  —  I  did  not 
once  suspect. 

"  But  one  day  —  I  remember  every  little  thing  in  that 
day  —  even  the  slow  ticking  of  the  clock,  as  I  tied  up  my 
hop-vine;  and  after  that  I  went  into  the  garden,  and  sat 
down 'on  a  little  bench  under  the  grape-trellis,  and  looked  at 
the  mountains.  How  beautiful  they  were !  all  purple  in  the 
shadow  of  sunset,  and  the  sky  golden  green  above  them, 
with  one  scarlet  cloud  floating  slowly  upward:  I  hope  I 
shall  never  see  a  red  cloud  again.  Presently,  John  came 
and  sat  by  me,  and  I  laid  my  head  on  his  shoulder ;  I  was 
so  glad  to  have  him  there  —  it  cured  my  homesickness ; 
once  or  twice  he  began  to  say  something,  and  stopped,  but  I 
did  not  mind  it.  I  wanted  him  to  see  a  low  line  of  mist 
creeping  down  a  canon  in  the  mountains,  and  I  stood  up  to 
point  it  out ;  so  he  rose,  too,  and  in  a  strange,  hurried  way, 
began  to  say  something  about  the  Mormon  faith,  and  the 
duties  of  a  believer,  which  I  did  not  notice  either  very 
5« 


106  ROSE   TERRY. 

much  —  I  was  so  full  of  admiring  the  scarlet  cloud  —  when, 
like  a  sudden  thunder-clap  at  my  ear,  I  heard  this  quick, 
resolute  sentence :  '  And  so,  according  to  the  advice  and  best 
judgment  of  the  Saints,  Elizabeth  Colton  will  be  sealed  to 
me,  after  two  days,  as  my  spiritual  wife.' 

"Then  my  soul  fled  out  of  my  lips,  in  one  cry  —  I  wv- 
dead  —  my  heart  turned  to  a  stone,  and  nothing  can  melt  it ! 
I  did  not  speak,  or  sigh,  but  sat  down  on  the  bench,  and 
John  talked  a  great  deal ;  I  think  he  rubbed  my  hands  and 
kissed  me,  but  I  did  not  feel  it.  I  went  away,  by  and  by, 
when  it  was  dark,  into  the  house  and  into  my  room.  I 
locked  the  door  and  looked  at  the  wall  till  morning,  then  I 
went  down  and  sat  in  a  chair  till  night ;  and  I  drank,  drank, 
drank,  like  a  fever.  All  the  time  cold  water,  but  it  never 
reached  my  thirst.  John  came  home,  but  he  did  not  dare 
touch  me ;  I  was  a  dead  corpse,  with  another  spirit  in  it  — 
not  his  wife  —  she  was  dead,  and  gone  to  heaven  on  a  bright 
cloud.  I  remember  being  glad  of  that. 

"  In  two  days  more  he  had  a  wife,  and  I  was  not  his  any 
longer.  I  staid  up  stairs  when  he  was  in  the  house,  and 
locked  my  door,  till,  after  a  great  many  days,  I  began  to  feel 
sorry  for  him.  Oh !  how  sorry !  for  I  knew  —  I  know  —  he 
will  see  himself  some  day  with  my  eyes,  but  not  till  I  die. 
Then  I  found  my  lips  full  of  blood  one  morning,  and  that 
pleased  me,  for  I  knew  it  was  a  promise  of  the  life  to  come  ; 
now  I  should  go  to  heaven,  where  there  are  n't  any  Mor- 
mons. 

"  I  believe,  though,  people  were  kind  to  me  all  the  time ; 
for  I  remember  they  came  and  said  things  to  me,  and  one 
shook  me  a  little  to  see  if  I  felt ;  and  one  woman  cried.  I 
was  glad  of  that,  for  I  could  n't  cry.  However,  after  three 
months,  I  was  better:  worse,  John  said  one  day,  and  he 
brought  a  doctor,  but  the  man  knew  as  well  as  I  did  —  so  he 
said  nothing  at  all,  and  gave  me  some  herb  tea  ;  —  tell  Aunt 
Martha  that. 


THE    MORMON'S   WIFE.  107 

•*  Then  I  could  walk  out  of  doors,  but  I  did  not  care  to ; 
only  once  I  smelt  the  hop-blossoms,  and  that  I  could  not 
bear,  so  I  went  out  and  pulled  up  my  hop-vine  by  the  roots, 
and  laid  it  out,  all  straight,  in  the  fierce  sunshine :  it  died 
directly.  In  the  winter,  John  had  another  wife  sealed  to 
him;  I  heard  somebody  say  so;  he  did  not  tell  me,  and  if 
he  had  I  could  not  help  it.  I  found  he  had  taken  a  little 
adobe  house  for  'hose  two,  and  I  knew  it  was  out  of  tender- 
ness for  my  feelings  he  did  so.  Oh  !  Uncle  Field !  perhaps 
he  has  loved  me  all  this  time  ?  I  know  better,  though,  than 
that?  Spring  came,  and  I  was  very  weak,  and  I  grew  not. 
to  care  about  anything;  so  I  told  John  he  could  bring 
those  two  women  to  this  house  if  he  wished ;  I  did  not  care, 
only  nobody  must  ever  come  into  my  room.  He  looked 
ashamed,  and  pleased,  too;  but  he  brought  them,  and  no- 
body ever  did  come  into  my  room.  By  and  by  Elizabeth 
Colton  brought  a  little  baby  down  stairs,  and  its  name  was 
Clara.  Poor  child !  poor  little  Mormon  child  !  I  hope  it 
will  die  some  time  before  it  grows  up ;  only  I  should  not 
like  it  to  come  my  side  of  heaven,  for  it  had  blue  eyes  like 
John's. 

"  Then  I  grew  more  and  more  ill,  and  now  I  am  really 
dying,  and  no  letter  has  come  from  you !  It  takes  so  long  — 
three  whole  months,  and  I  have  been  more  than  a  year  in 
the  house  with  John  Henderson  and  the  two  women.  I 
know  I  shall  never  see  you,  but  I  must  speak,  I  must,  even 
out  of  the  grave ;  and  I  keep  hearing  that  old  fugue.  '  The 
Lord  is  just,  is  just,  is  just ;  the  Lord  is  just  and  good ! ' 
Is  he  ?  I  know  He  is ;  but  I  forget  sometimes.  Uncle 
Field !  you  must  pray  for  John !  you  must !  I  cannot  die 
and  leave  him  in  his  sins,  his  delusion ;  he  does  not  think  it 
is  sin,  but  I  know  it.  Pray !  pray !  dear  Uncle :  don't  be 
discouraged  —  do  not  fear  —  he  will  be  undeceived  some 
time ;  he  will  repent,  I  know !  The  Lord  is  just,  and  I  will 
pray  in  heaven,  and  I  will  tell  Nelly  to,  but  you  must.  It 


108  ROSE   TERRY. 

says  in  the  Bible,  '  tne  prayer  of  a  righteous  man ' ;  and  oh ! 
I  am  not  righteous !  I  should  not  have  married  him ;  it 
was  an  unequal  yoke,  and  I  have  borne  the  burden ;  but  I 
loved  him  so  much !  Uncle  Field,  I  did  not  keep  myself 
from  idols.  Pray !  I  shall  be  dead,  but  he  lives.  Pray 
for  him,  and,  if  you  will,  for  the  little  child  —  because  —  I 
am  dying.  Dear  Nelly  !  —  " 

"Are  you  blotting  my  letter,  young  man?"  said  Parson 
Field,  at  my  elbow,  as  I  deciphered  the  last  broken,  tremb- 
ling line  of  Ada's  story.  "  Here  I  have  been  five  minutes, 
and  you  did  not  hear  me ! "  I  really  had  blotted  the  letter  ! 


BEYOND. 

BY  JOHN  GIBSON  LOCKHABT. 

WHEN  youthful  faith  hath  fled, 
Of  loving  take  thy  leave ; 
Be  constant  to  the  dead,  — 
The  dead  cannot  deceive 

Sweet  modest  flowers  of  spring, 
How  fleet  your  balmy  day ! 

And  man's  brief  year  can  bring 
No  secondary  May,  — 

No  earthly  burst  again 
Of  gladness  out  of  gloom ; 

Fond  hope  and  vision  vain, 
Ungrateful  to  the  tomb. 

But 'tis  an  old  belief 

That  on  some  solemn  shore 

Beyond  the  sphere  of  grief, 

Dear  friends  shall  meet  once  more,- 

Beyond  the  sphere  of  time, 
And  sin  and  fate's  control, 

Serene  in  endless  prime 
Of  body  and  of  soul. 

That  creed  I  fain  would  keep, 
That  hope  I'll  not  forego; 

Eternal  be  the  sleep, 
Unless  to  waken  so. 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  PASSAGES. 

BY  JOHN  MILT)N. 

T710R  although  a  poet,  soaring  in  the  high  region  of  his 
Jj  fancies,  with  his  garland  and  singing-robes  about  him, 
might,  without  apology,  speak  more  of  himself  than  I  mean 
to  do ;  yet  for  me  sitting  here  below  in  the  cool  element  of 
prose,  a  mortal  thing  among  many  readers,  of  no  empyreal 
conceit,  to  venture  and  divulge  unusual  things  of  myself,  I 
shall  petition  to  the  gentler  sort,  it  may  not  be  envy  to  me. 
I  must  say,  therefore,  that  after  I  had,  for  my  first  years,  by 
the  ceaseless  diligence  and  care  of  my  father,  whom  God  rec- 
ompense, been  exercised  to  the  tongues,  and  some  sciences,  as 
my  age  would  suffer,  by  sundry  masters  and  teachers,  both 
at  home  and  at  the  schools,  it  was  found  that  whether  aught 
was  imposed  on  me  by  them  that  had  the  overlooking,  or  be- 
taken to  of  mine  own  choice  in  English,  or  other  tongue, 
prosing  or  versing,  but  chiefly  this  latter,  the  style,  by  certain 
vital  signs  it  had,  was  likely  to  live.  But  much  latelier,  in 
the  private  academies  of  Italy,  whither  I  was  favored  to  re- 
sort, perceiving  that  some  trifles  which  I  had  in  memory, 
composed  at  under  twenty  or  thereabout  (for  the  manner  is 
that  every  one  must  give  some  proof  of  his  wit  and  reading 
there),  met  with  acceptance  above  what  was  looked  for ; 
and  other  things  which  I  had  shifted  in  scarcity  of  books 
and  conveniences,  to  patch  up  amongst  them,  were  received 
with  written  encomiums,  which  the  Italian  is  not  forward  to 
bestow  on  men  of  this  side  the  Alps,  I  began  thus  far  to 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL   PASSAGES.  Ill 

assent  both  to  them  and  divers  of  my  friends  here  at  home, 
and  not  less  to  an  inward  prompting,  which  now  grew  daily 
upon  me,  that  by  labor  and  intent  study,  (which  I  take  to  be 
my  portion  in  this  life,)  joined  with  the  strong  propensity 
of  nature,  I  might  perhaps  leave  something  so  written,  to 
after-times,  as  they  should  not  willingly  let  it  die.  These 
thoughts  at  once  possessed  me,  and  these  other ;  that  if  I 
were  certain  to  write  as  men  buy  leases,  for  three  lives  and 
downward,  there  ought  no  regard  be  sooner  had  than  to 
God's  glory,  by  the  honor  and  instruction  of  my  country. 
For  which  cause,  and  not  only  for  that  I  knew  it  would  be 
hard  to  arrive  at  the  second  rank  among  the  Latins,  I  ap- 
plied myself  to  that  resolution  which  Ariosto  followed  against 
the  persuasions  of  Bembo,  to  fix  all  the  industry  and  art  I 
could  unite  to  the  adorning  of  my  native  tongue;  not  to 
make  verbal  curiosities  the  end,  (that  were  a  toilsome  van- 
ity,) but  to  be  an  interpreter  and  relater  of  the  best  and 
sagest  things  among  mine  own  citizens  throughout  this 
island,  in  the  mother  dialect.  That  what  the  greatest  and 
choicest  wits  of  Athens,  Rome,  or  modern  Italy,  and  those 
Hebrews  of  old  did  for  their  country,  I,  in  my  proportion, 
with  this  over  and  above,  of  being  a  Christian,  might  do  for 
mine ;  not  caring  to  be  once  named  abroad,  though  perhaps  I 
could  attain  to  that,  but  content  with  these  British  islands 
as  my  world  ;  whose  fortune  hath  hitherto  been,  that  if  the 
Athenians,  as  some  say,  made  their  small  deeds  great  and 
renowned  by  their  eloquent  writers,  England  hath  had  her 
noble  achievements  made  small  by  the  unskilful  handling  of 
monks  and  mechanics. 

Time  serves  not  now,  and  perhaps  I  might  seem  too  pro- 
fuse, to  give  any  certain  account  of  what  the  mind  at  home, 
in  the  spacious  circuits  of  her  musing,  hath  liberty  to  pro- 
pose to  herself,  though  of  highest  hope  and  hardest  attempt- 
ing. Whether  that  epic  form,  whereof  the  two  poems  of 
Homer,  and  those  other  two  of  Virgil  and  Tasso  are  a  diffuse, 


112  JOHN  MILTON. 

and  the  book  of  Job  a  brief  model ;  or  whether  the  rules  of 
Aristotle  herein  are  strictly  to  be  kept,  or  nature  to  be  fol- 
lowed, which  in  them  that  know  art,  and  use  judgment,  is 
no  transgression,  but  an  enriching  of  art.  And  lastly,  what 
king  or  knight  before  the  conquest,  might  be  chosen,  in 
whom  to  lay  the  pattern  of  a  Christian  hero.  And  as  Tasso 
gave  to  a  prince  of  Italy  his  choice,  whether  he  would  com- 
mand him  to  write  of  Godfrey's  expedition  against  the  infi- 
dels, or  Belisarius  against  the  Goths,  or  Charlemagne  against 
the  Lombards ;  if  to  the  instinct  of  nature  and  the  embold- 
ening of  art  aught  may  be  trusted,  and  that  there  be  noth- 
ing adverse  in  our  climate,  or  the  fate  of  this  age,  it  haply 
would  be  no  rashness,  from  an  equal  diligence  and  inclina- 
tion, to  present  the  like  offer  in  our  own  ancient  stories.  Or 
whether  those  dramatic  constitutions,  wherein  Sophocles 
and  Euripides  reign,  shall  be  found  more  doctrinal  and  ex- 
emplary to  a  nation.  The  Scripture  also  affords  us  a  divine 
pastoral  drama  in  the  Song  of  Solomon,  consisting  of  two 
persons,  and  a  double  chorus,  as  Origen  rightly  judges ;  and 
the  Apocalypse  of  St.  John  is  the  majestic  image  of  a  high 
and  stately  tragedy,  shutting  up  and  intermingling  her  sol- 
emn scenes  and  acts  with  a  seven-fold  chorus  of  hallelujahs 
and  harping  symphonies.  And  this  my  opinion,  the  grave 
authority  of  Pareus,  commenting  that  book,  is  sufficient 
to  confirm.  Or  if  occasion  should  lead,  to  imitate  those 
magnific  odes  and  hymns,  wherein  Pindarus  and  Callima- 
chus  are  in  most  things  worthy,  some  others  in  their  frame 
judicious,  in  their  matter  most  an  end  faulty.  But  those 
frequent  songs  throughout  the  laws  and  prophets,  beyond  all 
these,  not  in  their  divine  argument  alone,  but  in  the  very 
critical  art  of  composition,  may  be  easily  made  appear  over 
all  the  kinds  of  lyric  poesy  to  be  incomparable.  These 
abilities,  wheresoever  they  be  found,  are  the  inspired  gift  of 
God,  rarely  bestowed,  but  yet  to  some  (though  most  abuse) 
in  every  nation :  and  are  of  power,  beside  the  office  of  a 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  PASSAGES.  113 

pulpit,  to  inbreed  and  cherish  in  a  great  people  the  seeds 
of  virtue  and  public  civility  ;  to  allay  the  perturbations  of 
the  mind,  and  set  the  affections  in  right  tune  ;  to  celebrate 
in  glorious  and  lofty  hymns  the  throne  and  equipage  of 
God's  almightiness,  and  what  he  suffers  to  be  wrought  with 
high  providence  in  his  church  ;  to  sing  victorious  agonies  of 
martyrs  and  saints,  the  deeds  and  triumphs  of  just  and  pious 
nations,  doing  valiantly  through  faith  against  the  enemios  of 
Christ;  to  deplore  the  general  relapses  of  kingdoms  and 
states  from  justice  and  God's  true  worship.  Lastly,  whatso- 
ever in  religion  is  holy  and  sublime,  in  virtue  amiable  or 
grave,  whatsoever  hath  passion  or  admiration  in  all  the 
changes  of  that  which  is  called  fortune  from  without,  or  the 
wily  subtleties  and  refluxes  of  man's  thoughts  from  within ; 
all  these  things,  with  a  solid  and  treatable  smoothness,  to 
point  out  and  describe.  Teaching  over  the  whole  book  of 
sanctity  and  virtue,  through  all  the  instances  of  example, 
with  such  delight  to  those  especially  of  soft  and  delicious 
temper,  who  will  not  so  much  as  look  upon  truth  her- 
self, unless  they  see  her  elegantly  dressed ;  that  whereas  the 
paths  of  honesty  and  good  life  appear  now  rugged  and  diffi- 
cult, though  they  be  indeed  easy  and  pleasant,  they  will  then 
appear  to  all  men  both  easy  and  pleasant,  though  they  were 
rugged  and  difficult  indeed.  And  what  a  benefit  this  would 
be  to  our  youth  and  gentry,  may  be  soon  guessed  by  what 
we  know  of  the  corruption  and  bane  which  they  suck  in 
daily  from  the  writings  and  interludes  of  libidinous  and 
ignorant  poetasters,  who  having  scarce  ever  heard  of  that 
which  is  the  main  consistence  of  a  true  poem,  the  choice  of 
such  persons  as  they  ought  to  introduce,  and  what  is  moral 
and  decent  to  each  one,  do  for  the  most  part  lay  up  vicious 
principles  in  sweet  pills,  to  be  swallowed  down,  and  make 
the  taste  of  virtuous  documents  harsh  and  sour.  But  be- 
cause the  spirit  of  man  cannot  demean  itself  lively  in  this 
body,  without  some  recreating  intermission  of  labor  and 


114  JOHN  'MILTON. 

serious  things,  it  were  happy  for  the  commonwealth,  if  oui 
magistrates,  as  in  those  famous  governments  of  old,  would 
take  into  their  care,  not  only  the  deciding  of  our  conten- 
tious law  cases  and  brawls,  but  the  managing  of  our  public 
sports  and  festival  pastimes,  that  they  might  be,  not  s-uch  as 
were  authorized  awhile  since,  the  provocations  of  drunken- 
ness and  lust,  but  such  as  may  inure  and  harden  our  bodies, 
by  martial  exercises,  to  all  warlike  skill  and  performance ; 
and  may  civilize,  adorn,  and  make  discreet  our  minds,  by 
the  learned  and  affable  meeting  of  frequent  academies,  and 
the  procurement  of  wise  and  artful  recitations,  sweetened 
with  eloquent  and  graceful  enticements  to  the  love  and 
practice  of  justice,  temperance,  and  fortitude,  instructing 
and  bettering  the  nation  at  all  opportunities,  that  the  call  of 
wisdom  and  virtue  may  be  heard  everywhere,  as  Solomon 
saith :  "  She  crieth  without,  she  uttereth  her  voice  in  the 
streets,  in  the  top  of  high  places,  in  the  chief  con- 
course, and  in  the  openings  of  the  gates."  Whether  this 
may  not  be  only  in  pulpits,  but  after  another  persuasive 
method,  at  set  and  solemn  paneguries,  in  theatres,  porches, 
or  what  other  place  or  way  may  win  most  upon  the  people, 
to  receive  at  once  both  recreation  and  instruction  ;  let  them 
in  authority  consult.  The  thing  which  I  had  to  say,  and 
those  intentions  which  have  lived  within  me,  ever  since  I 
could  conceive  myself  anything  worth  to  my  country,  I  re- 
turn to  crave  excuse,  that  urgent  reason  hath  plucked  from 
me,  by  an  abortive  and  foredated  discovery.  And  the  accom- 
plishment of  them  lies  not  but  in  a  power  above  man's  to 
promise  ;  but  that  none  hath  by  more  studious  ways  endeav- 
ored, and  with  more  unwearied  spirit  that  none  shall,  that  I 
dare  almost  aver  of  myself,  as  far  as  life  and  free  leisure  will 
extend ;  and  that  the  land  had  once  enfranchised  herself 
from  this  impertinent  yoke  of  prelacy,  under  whose  inquisito- 
rious  and  tyrannical  duncery  no  free  and  splendid  wit  can 
flourish.  Neither  do  I  think  it  shame  to  covenant  with  any 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  PASSAGES.  115 

knowing  leader,  that  for  some  few  years  yet  I  may  go  on 
trust  with  him  toward  the  payment  of  what  I  am  now  in- 
debted, as  being  a  work  not  to  be  raised  from  the  heat  of 
youth,  or  the  vapors  of  wine;  like  that  which  flows  at 
waste  from  the  pen  of  some  vulgar  amorist,  or  the  trencher- 
fury  of  a  rhyming  parasite  ;  nor  to  be  obtained  by  the  invo- 
cation of  dame  Memory  and  her  syren  daughters ;  but  by 
devout  prayer  to  that  eternal  Spirit,  who  can  enrich  with 
all  utterance  and  knowledge,  and  sends  out  his  seraphim 
with  the  hallowed  fire  of  his  altar,  to  touch  and  purify 
the  lips  of  whom  he  pleases.  To  this  must  be  added  indus- 
trious and  select  reading,  steady  observation,  insight  into  all 
seemly  and  generous  arts  and  affairs ;  till  which  in  some 
measure  be  compassed,  at  mine  own  peril  and  cost,  I  refuse 
not  to  sustain  this  expectation  from  as  many  as  are  not  loth 
to  hazard  so  much  credulity  upon  the  best  pledges  that  I 
can  give  them.  Although  it  nothing  content  me  to  have 
disclosed  thus  much  beforehand,  but  that  I  trust  hereby  to 
make  it  manifest  with  what  small  willingness  I  endure  to 
interrupt  the  pursuit  of  no  less  hopes  than  these,  and  leave  a 
calm  and  pleasing  solitariness,  fed  with  cheerful  and  confi- 
dent thoughts,  to  embark  in  a  troubled  sea  of  noises  and 
hoarse  disputes  ;  from  beholding  the  bright  countenance  of 
truth  in  the  quiet  and  still  air  of  delightful  studies,  to  come 
into  the  dim  reflection  of  hollow  antiquities  sold  by  the 
seeming  bulk,  and  there  be  fain  to  club  quotations  with  men 
whose  learning  and  belief  lies  in  marginal  stuffings;  who 
when  they  have,  like  good  sumpters,  laid  you  down  their 
horse-load  of  citations  and  fathers  at  your  door,  with  a  rhap- 
sody of  who  and  who  were  bishops  here  or  there,  you  may 
take  off  their  pack-saddles,  their  day's  work  is  done,  and 
episcopacy,  as  they  think,  stoutly  vindicated.  Let  any  gen- 
tle apprehension  that  can  distinguish  learned  pains  from 
unlearned  drudgery,  imagine  what  pleasure  or  profoundness 
can  be  in  this,  or  what  honor  to  deal  against  such  adversa- 


116  JOHN   MILTON. 

ries.  But  were  it  the  meanest  under-service,  if  God,  by  his 
secretary,  conscience,  enjoin  it,  it  were  sad  for  me  if  I  should 
draw  back ;  for  me  especially,  now  when  all  men  offer  their 
aid  to  help,  ease,  and  lighten  the  difficult  labors  of  the 
Church  to  whose  service,  by  the  intentions  of  my  parents  and 
friends,  I  was  destined  of  a  child,  and  in  mine  own  resolu- 
tions, till  coming  to  some  maturity  of  years,  and  perceiving 
what  tyranny  had  invaded  the  Church,  that  he  who  would 
take  orders,  must  subscribe  slave,  and  take  an  oath  withal ; 
which  unless  he  took  with  a  conscience  that  would  retch,  he 
must  either  strait  perjure,  or  split  his  faith ;  I  thought  it 
better  to  prefer  a  blameless  silence,  before  the  sacred  office 
of  speaking,  bought  and  begun  with  servitude  and  forswear- 
ing. 


WAKENING. 

BY  WILLIAM  ALLINGHAM. 

A  GOLDEN  pen  I  mean  to  take, 
A  book  of  ivory  white, 
And  in  the  mornings  when  I  wake 

The  kind  dream-thoughts  to  write, 
Which  come  from  heaven  for  love's  support, 

Like  dews  that  fall  at  night. 
For  soon  the  delicate  gifts  decay, 
As  stirs  the  mired  and  smoky  day. 

• 

u  Sleep  is  like  death,"  and  after  sleep 

The  world  seems  new  begun ; 
Its  earnestness  all  clear  and  deep, 

Its  true  solution  won ; 
White  thoughts  stand  luminous  and  firm, 

Like  statues  in  the  sun ; 
Refreshed  from  super-sensuous  founts, 
The  soul  to  purer  vision  mounts.     - 


JOHN   GRAHAM, 

FIRST  VISCOUNT    OF   DUNDEE. 
BY  EDMUND  LODGE. 

THIS  remarkable  man,  whose  name  can  never  be  for- 
gotten while  military  skill  and  prowess,  and  the  most 
loyal  and  active  fidelity  to  an  almost  hopeless  cause,  shall 
challenge  recollection,  was  the  eldest  son  of  Sir  William 
Graham,  of  Claverhouse,  in  the  County  of  Forfar,  by  Jane, 
fourth  daughter  of  John  Carnegy,  first  Earl  of  Northesk. 
His  family  was  a  scion  which  branched  off  from  the  ancient 
stock  of  the  great  House  of  Montrose,  early  in  the  fifteenth 
century,  by  the  second  marriage  of  William  Lord  Graham, 
of  Kincardine,  to  Mary,  second  daughter  of  Robert  the 
Third,  King  of  Scotland,  and  had  gradually  acquired  consid- 
erable estates,  chiefly  by  the  bounty  of  the  Crown.  He  re- 
ceived his  education  in  the  University  of  St.  Andrews,  which 
he  left  to  seek  on  the  Continent  the  more  polished  qualifica- 
tions of  a  private  gentleman  of  large  fortune,  the  sphere  to 
which  he  seemed  to  have  been  destined.  In  France,  how- 
over,  the  latent  fire  of  his  character  broke  forth ;  he  entered 
as  a  volunteer  into  the  army  of  Louis  the  Fourteenth  ;  and 
having  presently  determined  to  adopt  the  military  profes- 
sion, accepted  in  1672  a  commission  of  Cornet  in  the  Horse 
Guards  of  William  the  Third,  Prince  of  Orange,  by  whom, 
in  the  summer  of  1 674,  he  was  promoted  to  be  Captain  of  a 
troop,  for  his  signal  gallantry  at  the  battle  of  Serieffe,  in 
which  indeed  he  saved  the  life  of  that  Prince  by  a  personal 


JOHN    GRAHAM.  119 

effort.  lie  asked  soon  after  for  the  command  of  one  of  the 
Scottish  regiments  in  the  Dutch  service,  and,  strange  to  tell, 
was  refused,  on  which  he  threw  up  his  commission,  making 
the  cutting  remark,  that  "  the  soldier  who  has  not  gratitude 
cannot  he  brave,"  and  returned  to  England,  bringing  with 
him,  however,  the  warmest  recommendation*  from  William 
to  Charles  the  Second  ;  and  Charles,  who  had  been  just  then 
misadvised  to  subdue  the  obstinacy  of  the  Scottish  Cove- 
nanters by  force  of  arms,  appointed  him  to  lead  a  body  of 
horse  which  had  been  raised  in  Scotland  for  that  purpose, 
and  gave  him  full  powers  to  act  as  he  might  think  fit  against 
them,  although  under  the  nominal  command  of  the  Duke  of 
Monmouth.  His  conduct  in  the  performance  of  this  im- 
politic and  cruel  commission  has  left  a  stain  on  his  memory 
scarcely  to  be  glossed  over  by  the  brilliancy  of  his  subse- 
quent merits.  Bred  from  his  infancy  in  an  enthusiastic  ven- 
eration to  monarchy,  and  to  the  Established  Church,  his 
hatred  to  the  Whigs,  as  they  were  then  called  in  Scotland, 
was  almost  a  part  of  his  nature ;  and,  under  the  inf  lence  of 
a  temper  which  never  allowed  him  to  be  lukewarm  in  any 
pursuit,  his  zeal  degenerated  on  this  occasion  with  a  fright- 
ful facility  into  a  spirit  of  persecution.  He  watched  and 
dispersed,  with  the  most  severe  vigilance,  the  devotional 
meetings  of  those  perverse  and  miserable  sectaries,  and 
forced  thousands  of  them  to  subscribe,  at  the  point  of  the 
sword,  to  an  oath  utterly  subversive  of  the  doctrines  which 
they  most  cherished.  But  this  was  not  the  worst.  On  the 
1st  of  July,  1679,  having  attacked  a  conventicle  on  Loudoun 
Hill,  in  Ayrshire,  the  neighboring  peasants  rose  suddenly  on 
a  detachment  of  his  troops,  and,  with  that  almost  supernatu- 
ral power  which  a  pure  thirst  of  vengeance  alone  will  some- 
times confer  on  mere  physical  force,  defeated  them  with 
considerable  loss.  The  fancied  disgrace  annexed  to  this 
check  raised  Graham's  fury  to  the  highest  pitch,  and  he  per- 
mitted himself  to  retaliate  on  the  unarmed  Whigs  by  cruelties 


120  EDMUND   LODGE. 

inconsistent  with  the  character  of  a  brave  man.  The  track 
of  his  march  was  now  uniformly  marked  by  carnage ;  the 
refusal  of  his  test  was  punished  with  instant  death ;  and  Ihe 
practice  of  these  horrible  excesses,  which  was  continued  for 
some  months,  procured  for  him  the  appellation  of  "  Bloody 
Claverhouse  " ;  by  which  he  is  still  occasionally  mentioned 
in  that  part  of  Scotland.  He  apologized  for  these  horrors 
by  coldly  remarking,  that  "  if  terror  ended  or  prevented  war, 
it  was  true  mercy." 

It  may  be  concluded  that  this  intemperance  had  the  full 
approbation  of  the  Crown,  for  we  find  that  he  was  appointed 
in  1082  Sheriff  of  the  Shire  of  Wigton;  received  soon  after 
a  commission  of  Captain  in  what  was  called  the  Royal  Regi- 
ment of  Horse  ;  was  sworn  a  Privy-Councillor  in  Scotland  ; 
and  had  a  grant  from  the  .King  of  the  Castle  of  Dudhope,  and 
the  office  of  Constable  of  Dundee.  Nor  was  it  less  acceptable 
—  such  is  the  rage  of  party,  especially  when  excited  by  re- 
ligious discord  —  to  the  Scottish  Episcopalians,  who  from  that 
time  seemed  to  have  reposed  in  him  the  highest  confidence. 
James,  however,  in  forming  on  his  accession  a  new  Privy 
Council  for  that  country,  was  prevailed  on  to  omit  his  name, 
on  the  ground  of  his  having  connected  himself  in  marriage 
with  the  fanatical  family  of  Cochrane,  Earl  of  Dundonald, 
but  that  umbrage  was  soon  removed,  and  in  1686  he  was 
restored  to  his  seat  in  the  Council,  and  appointed  a  Brigadier- 
General;  in  1688  promoted  to  the  rank  of  Major-General ; 
and,  on  the  12th  of  November  in  that  year,  created  by 
patent  to  him,  and  the  heirs  male  of  his  body,  with  remain- 
der, in  default  of  such  issue,  to  his  other  heirs  male,  Viscount 
of  Dundee,  and  Baron  Graham  of  Claverhouse,  in  Scotland. 
The  gift  of  these  dignities  was,  in  fact,  the  concluding  act  of 
James's  expiring  government.  Graham,  who  was  then  at- 
tending that  unhappy  Prince  in  London,  used  every  effort 
that  good  sense  and  high  spirit  could  suggest,  to  induce  him  to 
remain  in  his  capital,  and  await  there  with  dignified  firmness 


JOHN    GRAHAM.  121 

the  arrival  of  the  Prince  of  Orange ;  undertaking  for  himself 
to  collect,  with  that  promptitude  which  was  almost  peculiar 
to  him,  ten  thousand  of  the  King's  disbanded  troops,  and  at 
their  head  to  annihilate  the  Dutch  forces  which  William  had 
brought  with  him.  Perhaps  there  existed  not  on  the  face  of 
the  earth  another  man  so  likely  to  redeem  such  an  engage- 
ment ;  but  James,  depressed  and  irresolute,  refused  the  offer. 
Struck,  however,  with  the  zeal  and  bravery,  and  indeed  with 
the  personal  affection,  which  had  dictated  it,  he  intrusted  to 
Dundee  the  direction  of  all  his  military  affairs  in  Scotland, 
whither  that  nobleman  repaired  just  at  the  time  that  James 
fled  from  London. 

When  he  arrived  at  Edinburgh  he  found  a  Convention  sit- 
ting, as  in  London,  of  the  Estates  of  the  country,  in  which 
he  took  his  place.  He  complained  to  that  assembly  that  a 
design  had  been  formed  to  assassinate  him ;  required  that  all 
strangers  should  be  removed  from  the  town  ;  and,  his  request 
having  been  denied,  he  left  Edinburgh  at  the  head  of  a  troop 
of  horse,  which  he  had  hastily  formed  there  of  soldiers  who 
had  deserted  in  England  from  his  own  regiment.  In  the 
short  interval  afforded  by  the  discussion  of  this  matter,  he 
formed  his  plans.  After  a  conference  with  the  Duke  of 
Gordon,  who  then  held  the  Castle  for  James,  he  set  out  for 
Stirling,  where  he  called  a  Parliament  of  the  friends  of  that 
Prince,  and  the  revolutionists  in  Scotland  saw  their  influ- 
ence, even  within  a  few  days,  dispelled  as  it  were  by  magic,  in 
obedience  to  his  powerful  energies.  He  was,  in  a  manner, 
without  troops,  depending  on  the  affections  of  those  around 
him,  which  he  had  heated  to  enthusiasm,  when  a  force  sent 
by  the  Convention  to  seize  his  person  seemed  to  remind  him 
that  he  must  have  an  army.  He  retired  therefore  into  Loch- 
aber;  summoned  a  meeting  of  the  chiefs  of  clans  in  the 
Highlands,  and  presently  found  himself  at  the  head  of  six 
thousand  of  the  hardy  natives,  well  armed  and  accoutred, 
He  now  wrote  to  James,  who,  in  compliance  with  French 


122  EDMUND    LODGE. 

counsels,  was  wasting  his  time  and  means  in  Ireland,  con- 
juring him  to  embark  with  a  part  of  his  army  for  Scotland, 
"  whore,"  as  he  told  the  king,  "  there  were  no  regular  troops, 
except  four  regiments,  which  William  had  lately  sent  down  ; 
where  his  presence  would  fix  the  wavering,  and  intimidate 
the  timid ;  and  where  hosts  of  shepherds  would  start  up  war- 
riors at  the  first  wave  of  his  banner  upon  their  mountains." 
With  the  candor  and  plainness  of  a  soldier  and  a  faithful 
servant,  he  besought  James  to  be  content  with  the  exercise  of 
his  own  religion,  and  to  leave  in  Ireland  the  Earl  of  Melfort, 
Secretary  of  State,  between  whom  and  himself  some  jealousy 
existed  which  might  be  prejudicial  to  a  service  in  which  they 
were  alike  devotedly  sincere,  however  they  might  differ  as  to 
the  best  means  of  advancing  it.  James  rejected  his  advice. 
"  Dundee  was  furnished,"  says  Burnet,  "  with  some  small 
store  of  arms  and  ammunition,  and  had  kind  promises,  en- 
couraging him,  and  all  that  joined  with  him." 

Left  now  to  his  own  discretion  and  his  own  resources,  he 
displayed,  together  with  the  greatest  military  qualifications, 
and  the  most  exalted  generosity  and  disinterestedness,  all  the 
subtlety  of  a  refined  politician.  On  his  arrival  at  Inverness 
he  found  that  a  discord  had  long  subsisted  between  the 
people  of  the  town  and  some  neighboring  chiefs,  on  an  al- 
leged debt  from  the  one  to  the  other,  and  that  the  two  parties, 
with  their  dependants,  had  assembled  in  arms  to  decide  the 
quarrel.  He  heard  the  allegations  of  the  principals  on  each 
side,  with  an  affectation  of  the  exactness  of  judicial  inquiry, 
and  then,  having  convened  the  entire  mass  of  the  conflicting 
parties  in  public,  reproached  them  with  the  most  cutting 
severity,  that  they,  "  who  were  all  equally  friends  to  King 
James,  should  be  preparing,  at  a  time  when  he  most  needed 
their  friendship,  to  draw  those  daggers  against  each  other 
which  ought  to  be  plunged  only  into  the  breasts  of  his  ene- 
mies." He  then  paid  from  his  own  purse  the  debt  in  dis- 
pute ;  and  the  late  litigants,  charmed  by  the  grandeur  of  his 


JOHN    GRAHAM.  128 

conduct,  instantly  placed  themselves  in  a  cordial  union  under 
his  banner.  To  certain  other  chiefs,  upon  whose  estates  the 
Earl  of  Argyle.  who  sought  to  restore  his  importance  by  at- 
taching himself  to  the  revolutionary  party,  had  ancient  claims 
in  law,  and  to  others,  who  had  obtained  grants  from  the 
Crown  of  some  of  that  nobleman's  forfeited  lands,  he  repre- 
sented the  peril  in  which  they  would  be  placed  by  the  suc- 
cess of  William's  enterprise  on  the  British  throne,  and 
gained  them  readily  to  his  beloved  cause.  He  addressed 
himself  with  signal  effect  to  all  the  powerful  men  of  the 
north  of  Scotland;  fomented  the  angry  feelings  of  .hose 
who  thought  themselves  neglected  by  the  new  government; 
flattered  the  vanity  of  those  who,  indifferent  to  the  affairs  of 
either  party,  sought  simply  for  power  and  importance  ;  cor- 
rupted several  officers  of  the  regiments  which  were  in 
preparation  to  be  sent  against  him ;  and  even  managed  to 
maintain  a  constant,  correspondence  with  some  members 
of  the  Privy  Council,  by  whom  he  was  regularly  apprised 
of  the  plans  contrived  from  time  to  time  to  counteract  his 
gigantic  efforts.  Nay,  he  contrived  to  detach,  as  it  were  in 
a  moment,  from  Lord  Murray,  heir  to  the  Earl  of  Athol, 
a  body  of  a  thousand  men,  raised  by  that  nobleman  on  his 
father's  estates ;  a  defection  of  Highland  vassals  which  had 
never  till  then  occurred.  "  While  Murray,"  says  my  author, 
u  was  reviewing  them,  they  quitted  their  ranks ;  ran  to  an 
adjoining  brook ;  filled  their  bonnets  with  water ;  drank  to 
King  James's  health;  and,  with  pipes  playing,  marched  off 
to  Lord  Dundee." 

So  acute  and  experienced  a  commmJer  as  William  could 
not  be  long  unconscious  of  the  importance  of  such  an  enemy. 
He  despatched  into  Scotland,  at  the  head  of  between  five  and 
six  thousand  picked  troops,  General  M'Kay,  who  had  long 
served  him  in  Holland  with  the  highest  military  reputation. 
In  the  mean  time,  James,  who  had  been  apprised  of  this  dis- 
position, sent  orders  to  Dundee  not  to  hazard  a  battle  till 


124  EDMUND  LODGE. 

the  arrival  of  a  force  from  Ireland,  which  he  now  promised. 
Two  months,  however,  elapsed  before  it  appeared,  which 
Dundee,  burning  with  impatience,  was  necessitated  to  pass 
in  the  mountains,  in  marches  of  unexampled  rapidity,  in 
furious  partial  attacks,  and  masterly  retreats.  It  has  been 
well  said  of  him,  that  "  the  first  messenger  of  his  approach 
was  generally  his  own  army  in  fight,  and  that  the  first  intel- 
ligence of  his  retreat,  brought  accounts  that  he  was  already 
out  of  his  enemy's  reach."  The  long-expected  aid  at  length 
arrived,  in  the  last  week  of  June,  1689,  consisting  only  of 
five  hundred  raw  and  ill-provided  recruits,  but  he  instantly 
made  ready  for  action.  He  advanced  to  meet  M'Kay,  who 
was  preparing  to  invest  the  Castle  of  Blair,  in  Athol,  a 
fortress  the  possession  whereof  enabled  James's  army  to 
maintain  a  free  communication  between  the  northern  and 
southern  Highlands,  and  determined  to  attack  William's 
troops  on  a  small  plain  at  the  mouth  of  the  pass  of  Killi- 
cranky,  after  they  should  have  marched  through  that  re- 
markable defile,  on  their  road  to  Blair.  On  the  16th  of 
July,  at  noon,  M'Kay's  army  arrived  on  the  plain,  and  dis- 
covered Dundee  in  array  on  the  opposite  hills.  He  had 
resolved,  for  reasons  abounding  with  military  genius,  to 
defer  his  onset  till  the  evening,  and  M'Kay,  by  various  ex- 
pedi^nts  vainly  tempted  him  during  the  day  to  descend :  at 
length,  half  an  hour  before  sunset,  his  Highlanders  rushed 
down  with  the  celerity  and  the  fury  of  lions,  and  William's 
army  was  in  an  instant  completely  routed.  Dundee,  who 
had  fought  on  foot,  now  mounted  his  horse,  and  flew  towards 
the  pass,  to  cut  off  their  retreat,  when,  looking  back,  he  found 
that  he  had  outstripped  his  men,  and  was  nearly  alone.  He 
halted,  and,  wavering  his  arm  in  the  air,  pointed  to  the  pass, 
as  a  signal  to  them  to  hasten  their  march,  and  to  occupy  it. 
At  that  moment  a  ball  from  a  musket  aimed  at  him  lodged 
in  his  body,  immediately  under  the  arm  so  raised.  He  fell 
from  his  horse,  and,  fainting,  was  carried  off  the  field  ;  but 


JOHN   GRAHAM.  125 

soon  after  recovering  his  senses  for  a  few  seconds,  he  hastily 
inquired  "  how  things  went,"  and  on  being  answered  "  all 
was  well,"  — "  Then,"  said  he,  "  I  am  well,"  and  expired. 
William,  on  hearing  of  his  death,  said,  "  The  war  in  Scot- 
land is  now  ended." 

The  memory  of  this  heroic  partisan  has  been  cherished  in 
the  hearts,  and  celebrated  by  the  pens,  of  numbers  of  his 
countrymen.  A  poet  thus  pathetically  addresses  his  shade, 
and  bewails  the  loss  sustained  by  Scotland  in  his  death :  — 

"  Ultime  Scotorum,  potuit  quo  sospite  solo 

Libertas  patriae  salva  fuisse  tuce. 
Tc  moricnte  novos  accepit  Scotia  cives, 

Accepitque  novos  to  moriente  Deos. 
Ilia  tibi  superesse  negat,  tu  non  potes  illi. 

Ergo  Caledonia,  nomen  inane,  vale ! 
Tuque  vale  gentis  priscae  fortissimo  ductor, 

Optime  Scotorum,  atque  ultimo,  Grame,  vale  1 " 

And  Sir  John  Dalrymple  has  left  us  some  particulars  of  his 
military  character  exquisitely  curious  and  interesting.  "  In 
his  marches,"  says  that  author,  "  his  men  frequently  wanted 
bread,  salt,  and  all  liquors  except  water,  during  several  weeks, 
yet  were  ashamed  to  complain,  when  they  observed  that  their 
commander  lived  not  more  delicately  than  themselves.  If 
anything  good  was  brought  him  to  eat,  he  sent  it  to  a  faint 
or  sick  soldier.  If  a  soldier  was  weary,  he  offered  to  carry 
his  arms.  He  kept  those  who  were  with  him  from  sinking 
under  their  fatigues,  not  so  much  by  exhortation  as  by  pre- 
venting them  from  attending  to  their  sufferings ;  for  this 
reason  Ii3  walked  on  foot  with  the  men ;  now  by  the  side  of 
one  clan,  and  anon  by  that  of  another :  he  amused  them  with 
jokes ;  he  flattered  them  with  his  knowledge  of  their  gen- 
ealogies ;  he  animated  them  by  a  recital  of  the  deeds  of  their 
ancestors,  and  of  the  verses  of  their  bards.  It  was  one  of 
his  maxims  that  no  general  should  fight  with  an  irregular 
army  unless  he  was  acquainted  with  every  man  he  com- 


126  EDMUND   LODGE. 

manded.  Yet,  with  these  habits  of  familiarity,  the  severity 
of  his  discipline  was  dreadful :  the  only  punishment  he  in- 
flicted was  death.  All  other  punishments,  he  said,  disgraced 
a  gentleman,  and  all  who  were  with  him  were  of  that  rank ; 
but  that  death  was  a  relief  from  the  consciousness  of  crime. 
It  is  reported  of  him  that  having  seen  a  youth  fly  in  his  first 
action,  he  pretended  he  had  sent  him  to  the  rear  on  a  mes- 
sage. The  youth  fled  a  second  time  —  he  brought  him  to 
the  front  of  the  army,  and  saying  that '  a  gentleman's  son 
ought  not  to  fall  by  the  hands  of  a  common  executioner,'  shot 
him  with  his  own  pistol." 

In  society  he  is  said  to  have  been  as  much  distinguished 
by  a  delicacy  and  softness  of  manners  and  temper,  and  by 
the  most  refined  politeness,  as  he  was  by  his  sternness  in  war. 
Sir  Walter  Scott,  in  his  Romance  of  Old  Mortality,  in  which 
facts  and  fiction  are  blended  with  an  uncommon  felicity, 
gives  us  the  following  picture  of  his  person  and  demeanor, 
evidently  not  the  work  of  fancy,  and  probably  in  substance 
the  result  of  respectable  and  inveterate  tradition  :  — 

"  Graham  of  Claverhouse  was  rather  low  of  stature,  and 
slightly,  though  elegantly,  formed  ;  his  gesture,  language,  and 
manners,  were  those  of  one  whose  life  had  been  spent  among 
the  noble  and  the  gay.  His  features  exhibited  even  femi- 
nine regularity.  An  oval  face,  a  straight  and  well-formed 
nose,  dark  hazel  eyes,  a  complexion  just  sufficiently  tinged 
with  brown  to  save  it  from  the  charge  of  effeminacy,  a  short 
upper  lip,  curved  upwards  like  that  of  a  Grecian  statue,  and 
slightly  shaded  by  small  mustachios  of  light  brown,  joined  to 
a  profusion  of  long  curled  locks  of  the  same  color,  which  fell 
down  on  each  side  of  his  face,  contributed  to  form  such  a 
countenance  as  limners  like  to  paint,  and  ladies  to  look  upon. 
The  severity  of  his  character,  as  well  as  the  higher  attributes 
of  undaunted  and  enterprising  valor  which  even  his  enemies 
were  compelled  to  admit,  lay  concealed  under  an  exterior 
which  seemed  adapted  to  the  court  or  the  saloon  rather  than 


JOHN   GRAHAM.  127 

to  the  field.  The  same  gentleness  and  gayety  of  expression 
which  reigned  in  his  features  seemed  to  inspire  his  actions 
and  gestures  ;  and,  on  the  whole,  he  was  generally  esteemed, 
ai  first  sight,  rather  qualified  to  be  the  votary  of  pleasure 
than  of  ambition.  But  under  this  soft  exterior  was  hidden  a 
spirit  unbounded  in  daring  and  in  aspiring,  yet  cautious  and 
prudent  as  that  of  Machiavel  himself.  Profound  in  politics, 
and  imbued,  of  course,  with  that  disregard  for  individual 
rights  which  its  intrigues  usually  generate,  this  leader  was 
cool  in  pursuing  success,  careless  of  death  himself,  and  ruth- 
le«3  in  inflicting  it  upon  others.  Such  are  the  characters 
formed  in  times  of  civil  discord,  when  the  highest  qualities, 
perverted  by  party  spirit,  and  inflamed  by  habitual  opposi- 
tion, are  too  often  combined  with  vices  and  excesses,  which 
C*  jprive  them  at  once  of  their  merit  and  of  their  lustre." 


THE  BURIAL-MARCH  OF  DUNDEE/ 

BY  W.  EDMONDSTOUNE  AYTOUN. 


SOUND  the  fife,  and  cry  the  slogan, — 
Let  the  pribroch  shake  the  air 
With  its  wild  triumphal  music, 

Worthy  of  the  freight  we  bear. 
Let  the  ancient  hills  of  Scotland 

Hear  once  more  the  battle-song 
Swell  within  their  glens  and  valleys 

As  the  clansmen  march  along ! 
Never  from  the  field  of  combat, 

Never  from  the  deadly  fray, 
Was  a  nobler  trophy  carried 

Than  we  bring  with  us  to-day, — 
Never,  since  the  valiant  Douglas 

On  his  dauntless  bosom  bore 
Good  King  Robert's  heart  —  the  priceless  — 

To  our  dear  Redeemer's  shore ! 
Lo  !  we  bring  with  us  the  hero, — 

Lo !  we  bring  the  conquering  Graeme, 
Crowned  as  best  beseems  a  victor 

From  the  altar  of  his  fame ; 
Fresh  and  bleeding  from  the  baftle 

Whence  his  spirit  took  its  flight, 

*  John  Graham  of  Claverhouse,  Viscount  Dundee,  was  killed  at 
the  battle  of  Kflliecrankie  in  Scotland. 


THE   BURIAL-MARCH   OF  DUNDEE. 

Midst  the  crashing  charge  of  squadrons, 

And  the  thunder  of  the  fight ! 
Strike,  I  say,  the  notes  of  triumph, 

As  we  march  o'er  moor  and  lea  1 
Is  there  any  here  will  venture 

To  bewail  our  dead  Dundee  ? 
Let  the  widows  of  the  traitors 

Weep  until  their  eyes  are  dim ! 
Wail  ye  may  full  well  for  Scotland, — 

Let  none  dare  to  mourn  for  him ! 
See  !  above  his  glorious  body 

Lies  the  royal  banner's  fold ; 
See  !  his  valiant  blood  is  mingled 

With  its  crimson  and  its  gold. 
See  how  calm  he  looks,  and  stately, 

Like  a  warrior  on  his  shield, 
Waiting  till  the  flush  of  morning 

Breaks  along  the  battle-field  1 
See  —  0  never  more,  my  comrades, 

Shall  we  see  that  falcon  eye 
Redden  with  its  inward  lightning, 

As  the  hour  of  fight  drew  nigh ! 
Never  shall  we  hear  the  voice  that 

Clearer  than  the  trumpet's  call, 
Bade  us  strike  for  King  and  Country, 

Bade  us  win  the  field,  or  fall ! 
Oa  the  heights  of  Killiecrankie 

Yester-morn  our  army  lay : 
Slowly  rose  the  mist  in  columns 

From  the  river's  broken  way ; 
Hoarsely  roared  the  swollen  torrent, 

And  the  Pass  was  wrapt  in  gloom, 
When  the  clansmen  rose  together 

From  their  lair  amidst  the  broom. 
6* 


130  W.  EDMONDSTOUNE   AYTOUN. 

Then  we  belted  on  our  tartans, 

And  our  bonnets  down  we  drew, 
And  we  felt  our  broadswords'  edges, 

And  we  proved  them  to  be  true ; 
And  we  prayed  the  prayer  of  soldiers, 

And  we  cried  the  gathering-cry, 
And  we  clasped  the  hands  of  kinsmen, 

And  we  swore  to  do  or  die ! 
Then  our  leader  rode  before  us 

On  his  war-horse  black  as  night,  — 
Well  the  Cameronian  rebels 

Know  that  charger  in  the  fight !  — 
And  a  cry  of  exultation 

From  the  bearded  warriors  rose ; 
For  we  loved  the  house  of  Claver'se, 

And  we  thought  of  good  Montrose. 
But  he  raised  his  hand  for  silence  — 

"  Soldiers !  I  have  sworn  a  vow: 
Ere  the  evening  star  shall  glisten 

On  Schehallion's  lofty  brow, 
Either  we  shall  rest  in  triumph, 

Or  another  of  the  Graemes 
Shall  have  died  in  battle-harness 

For  his  Country  and  King  James  I 
Think  upon  the  Royal  Martyr,  — 

Think  of  what  his  race  endure,  — 
Think  of  him  whom  butchers  murdered 

On  the  field  of  Magus  Muir :  — 
By  his  sacred  blood  I  charge  ye, 

By  the  ruined  hearth  and  shrine,  — 
6y  the  blighted  hopes  of  Scotland, 

By  your  injuries  and  mine,  — 
Strike  this  day  as  if  the  anvil 

Lay  beneath  your  blows  the  while, 


THE   BURIAL-MARCH    OF  DUNDEE.  131 

Be  they  covenanting  traitors, 

Or  the  brood  of  false  Argyle ! 
Strike !  and  drive  the  trembling  rebels 

Backwards  o'er  the  stormy  Forth ; 
Let  them  tell  their  pale  Convention 

How  they  fared  within  the  North. 
Let  them  tell  that  Highland  honor 

Is  not  to  be  bought  nor  sold, 
That  we  scorn  their  prince's  anger 

As  we  loathe  his  foreign  gold. 
Strike !  and  when  the  fight  is  over, 

If  ye  look  in  vain  for  me, 
Where  the  dead  are  lying  thickest, 

Search  for  him  that  was  Dundee  ! " 

Loudly  then  the  hills  re-echoed 

"With  our  answer  to  his  call, 
But  a  deeper  echo  sounded 

In  the  bosoms  of  us  all. 
For  the  lands  of  wide  Breadalbane, 

Not  a  man  who  heard  him  speak 
Would  that  day  have  left  the  battle. 

Burning  eye  and  flushing  cheek 
Told  the  clansmen's  fierce  emotion, 

And  they  harder  drew  their  breath  ; 
For  their  souls  were  strong  within  them, 

.Stronger  than  the  grasp  of  death. 
Soon  we  heard  a  challenge-trumpet 

Sounding  in  the  Pass  below, 
And  the  distant  tramp  of  horses, 

And  the  voices  of  the  foe : 
Down  we  crouched  amid  the  bracken, 

Till  the  Lowland  ranks  drew  near, 
Panting  like  the  hounds  in  summer, 

When  they  scent  the  stately  deer 


132  W.  EDMONDSTOUNE  AYTOUN. 

From  the  dark  defile  emerging, 

Next  we  saw  the  squadrons  come, 
Leslie's  foot  and  Leven's  troopers 

Marching  to  the  tuck  of  drum  ; 
Thropgh  the  scattered  wood  of  birches, 

O'er  the  broken  ground  and  heath, 
Wound  the  long  battalion  slowly, 

Till  they  gained  the  plain  beneath  ; 
Then  we  bounded  from  our  covert, — 

Judge  how  looked  the  Saxons  then, 
When  they  saw  the  rugged  mountains 

Start  to  life  with  armed  men  ! 
Like  a  tempest  down  the  ridges 

Swept  the  hurricane  of  steel, 
Rose  the  slogan  of  Macdonald,  — 

Flashed  the  broadsword  of  Lochiel ! 
Vainly  sped  the  withering  volley 

'Mongst  the  foremost  of  our  band,  — 
On  we  poured  until  we  met  them, 

Foot  to  foot,  and  hand  to  hand. 
Horse  and  man  went  down  like  drift-wood 

When  the  floods  are  black  at  Yule, 
And  their  carcasses  are  whirling 

In  the  Garry's  deepest  pool. 
Horse  and  man  went  down  before  us,  — 

Living  foe  there  tarried  none 
On  the  field  of  Killiecrankie, 

When  that  stubborn  fight  was  done ! 

And  the  evening  star  was  shining 
On  Schehallion's  distant  head, 

When  we  wiped  our  bloody  broadswords, 
And  returned  to  count  the  dead. 

There  we  found  him  gashed  and  gory. 
Stretched  upon  the  cumbered  plain, 


THE   BURIAL-MARCH  OF  DUNDEE.  133 

As  he  told  us  where  to  seek  him, 

In  the  thickest  of  the  slain. 
And  a  smile  was  on  his  visage, 

For  within  his  dying  ear 
Pealed  the  joyful  note  of  triumph, 

And  the  clansmen's  clamorous  cheer  ? 
So,  amidst  the  battle's  thunder, 

Shot,  and  steel,  and  scorching  flame, 
In  the  glory  of  his  manhood 

Passed  the  spirit  of  the  Graeme ! 

Open  wide  the  vaults  of  Atholl, 

Where  the  bones  of  heroes  rest, — 
Open  wide  the  hallowed  portals 

To  receive  another  guest ! 
Last  of  Scots,  and  last  of  freemen, — 

Last  of  all  that  dauntless  race, 
Who  would  rather  die  unsullied 

Than  outlive  the  land's  disgrace ! 
O  thou  lion-hearted  warrior ! 

Reck  not  of  the  after-time ; 
Honor  may  be  deemed  dishonor, 

Loyalty  be  called  a  crime. 
Sleep  in  peace  with  kindred  ashes 

Of  the  noble  and  the  true, 
Hands  that  never  failed  their  country, 

Hearts  that  never  baseness  knew. 
Sleep  !  —  and  till  the  latest  trumpet 

Wakes  the  dead  from  earth  and  sea, 
Scotland  shall  not  boast  a  braver 

Chieftain  than  our  own  Dundee  I 


MIGNON  AS  AN  ANGEL 


BY  GOETHE. 


IT  chanced  that  the  birthday  of  two  twin-sisters,  whose  be- 
havior had  been  always  very  good,  was  near;  I  prom- 
ised that,  on  this  occasion,  the  little  present  they  had  so 
well  deserved  should  be  delivered  to  them  by  an  angel. 
They  were  on  the  stretch  of  curiosity  regarding  this  phenom- 
enon. I  had  chosen  Mignon  for  the  part ;  and  accordingly, 
at  the  appointed  day,  I  had  her  suitably  equipped  in  a 
long  light  snow-white  dress.  She  was,  of  course,  provided 
with  a  golden  girdle  round  her  waist,  and  a  golden  fillet  on 
her  hair.  I  at  first  proposed  to  omit  the  wings  ;  but  the 
young  ladies  who  were  decking  her,  insisted  on  a  pair  of 
large  golden  pinions,  in  preparing  which  they  meant  to 
show  their  highest  art.  Thus  did  the  strange  apparition, 
with  a  lily  in  the  one  hand,  and  a  little  basket  in  the  other, 
glide  in  among  the  girls  :  she  surprised  even  me.  "  There 
comes  the  angel !  "  said  I.  The  children  all  shrank  back  ; 
at  last  they  cried :  "  It  is  Mignon  ! "  yet  they  durst  not 
venture  to  approach  the  wondrous  figure. 

"  Here  are  your  gifts,"  said  she,  putting  dow,n  the  basket 
They  gathered  around  her,  they  viewed,  they  felt,  they 
questioned  her. 

"  Art  though  an  angel  ?  "  asked  one  of  them 

"  I  wish  I  were,"  said  Mignon. 

«  Why  dost  thou  bear  a  lily  ?  " 


MIGNON  AS  AN  ANGEL.  135 

u  So  pure  and  so  open  should  my  heart  be  ;  then  were  1 
happy." 

"  What  wings  are  these  ?     Let  us  see  them  ! " 

''They  represent  far  finer  ones,  which  are  not  yet  un- 
folded." 

And  thus  significantly  did  she  answer  all  their  other 
childlike,  innocent  inquiries.  The  little  party  having  satis- 
fied their  curiosity,  and  the  impression  of  the  show  begin- 
ning to  abate,  we  were  for  proceeding  to  undress  the  little 
angel.  This,  however,  she  resisted :  she  took  her  cithern ; 
she  seated  herself  here,  on  this  high  writing-table,  and  sang 
a  little  song  with  touching  grace :  — 

Such  let  me  seem,  till  such  I  be ; 

Take  not  my  snow-white  dress  away ; 
Soon  from  this  dusk  of  earth  I  flee 

Up  to  the  glittering  lands  of  day. 

There  first  a  little  space  I  rest, 
Then  wake  so  glad,  to  scene  so  kind ; 

In  earthly  robes  no  longer  drest, 
This  band,  this  girdle  left  behind. 

And  those  calm  shining  sons  of  morn, 

They  ask  not  who  is  maid  or  boy  ; 
No  robes,  no  garments  there  are  worn, 

Our  body  pure  from  sin's  alloy. 

Through  little  life  not  much  I  toiled, 
Yet  anguish  long  this  heart  has  wrung, 

Untimely  woe  my  blossom  spoiled ; 
Make  me  again  forever  young ! 


THE  CAGE   AT   CRANFORD. 


BY  MKS.   GASKELL. 

HAVE  I  told  you  anything  about  my  friends  at  Cran* 
ford  since  the  year  1856?  I  think  not. 

You  remember  the  Gordons,  don't  you  ?  She  that  was 
Jessie  Brown,  who  married  her  old  love,  Major  Gordon  : 
and  from  being  poor  became  quite  a  rich  lady :  but  for  all 
that  never  forgot  any  of  her  old  friends  in  Cranford. 

Well !  the  Gordons  were  travelling  abroad,  for  they  were 
very  fond  of  travelling  ;  people  who  have  had  to  spend  part 
of  their  lives  in  a  regiment  always  are,  I  think.  They  were 
now  at  Paris,  in  May,  1856,  and  were  going  to  stop  there, 
and  in  the  neighborhood  all  summer,  but  Mr.  Ludovic  was 
coming  to  England  soon ;  so  Mrs.  Gordon  wrote  me  word. 
I  was  glad  she  told  me,  for  just  then  I  was  waiting  to  make 
a  little  present  to  Miss  Pole,  with  whom  I  was  staying ;  so 
I  wrote  to  Mrs.  Gordon,  and  asked  her  to  choose  me  out 
something  pretty  and  new  and  fashionable,  that  would  be 
acceptable  to  Miss  Pole.  Miss  Pole  had  just  been  talking 
a  great  deal  about  Mrs.  Fitz  Adam's  caps  being  so  unfash- 
ionable, which  I  suppose  made  me  put  in  that  word  fashion- 
able ;  but  afterwards  I  wished  I  had  sent  to  say  my  present 
was  not  to  be  too  fashionable ;  for  there  is  such  a  thing,  I 
can  assure  you !  The  price  of  my  present  was  not  to  be 
more  than  twenty  shillings,  but  that  is  a  very  handsome  sum 
if  you  put  it  in  that  way,  though  it  may  not  sound  no  much 
if  you  only  call  it  a  sovereign. 


THE    CAGE   AT    CRANI ORD.  137 

Mrs.  Gordon  wrote  back  to  me,  pleased,  as  she  always 
was,  with  doing  anything  for  her  old  friends.  She  told  nie 
she  had  been  out  for  a  day's  shopping  before  going  into  the 
country,  and  had  got  a  cage  for  herself  of  the  newest  and 
most  elegant  description,  and  had  thought  that  she  could  not 
do  better  than  get  another  like  it  as  my  present  for  Miss 
Pole,  as  cages  were  so  much  better  made  in  Paris  than  any- 
where else.  I  was  rather  dismayed  when  I  read  this  letter, 
for  however  pretty  a  cage  might  be,  it  was  something  for 
Miss  Pole's  own  self,  and  not  for  her  parrot,  that  I  had  in- 
tended to  get.  Here  had  I  been  finding  ever  so  many  rea- 
sons against  her  buying  a  new  cap  at  Johnson's  fashion-show, 
because  I  thought  that  the  present  which  Mrs.  Gordon  was 
to  choose  for  me  in  Paris  might  turn  out  to  be  an  elegant 
and  fashionable  head-dress  ;  a  kind  of  cross  between  a  tur- 
ban and  a  cap,  as  I  see  those  from  Paris  mostly  are ;  and 
now  I  had  to  veer  round,  and  advise  her  to  go  as  fast  as  she 
could,  and  secure  Mr.  Johnson's  cap  before  any  other  pur- 
chaser snatched  it  up.  But  Miss  Pole  was  too  sharp  for  me. 

"  Why,  Mary,"  said  she,  "  it  was  only  yesterday  you  were 
running  down  that  cap  like  anything.  You  said,  you  know, 
that  lilac  was  too  old  a  color  for  me  ;  and  green  too  young ; 
and  that  the  mixture  was  very  unbecoming." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  I ;  "  but  I  have  thought  better  of  it. 
I  thought  about  it  a  great  deal  last  night,  and  I  think  —  I 
thought — they  would  neutralize  each  other;  and  the  shad- 
ows of  any  color  are,  you  know  —  something  I  know  —  com- 
plementary colors."  I  was  not  sure  of  my  own  meaning, 
but  I  had  an  idea  in  my  head,  though  I  could  not  express  it. 
She  took  me  up  shortly. 

"  Child,  you  don't  know  what  you  are  saying.  And  be- 
sides, I  don't  want  compliments  at  my  time  of  life.  I  lay 
awake,  too,  thinking  of  the  cap.  I  only  buy  one  ready-made 
once  a  year,  and  of  course  it 's  a  matter  for  consideration , 
and  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  you  were  quite  right." 


138  MRS.    GASKELL. 

"O  dear  Miss  Pole!  I  was  quite  wrong;  if  you  only 
knew  —  I  did  think  it  a  very  pretty  cap  —  only  —  " 

"  Well !  do  just  finish  what  you  've  got  to  say.  You  're 
almost  as  bad  as  Miss  Matty  in  your  way  of  talking,  without 
being  half  as  good  as  she  is  in  other  ways ;  though  I  'ni  very 
fond  of  you,  Mary,  I  don't  mean  I  am  not ;  but  you  mus'.  see 
you  're  very  off  and  on,  and  very  muddle-headed.  It 's  the 
truth,  so  you  will  not  mind  my  saying  so." 

It  was  just  because  it  did  seem  like  the  truth  at  that  time 
that  I  did  mind  her  saying  so ;  and,  in  despair,  I  thought  I 
would  tell  her  all. 

"  I  did  not  mean  what  I  said ;  I  don't  think  lilac  too  old 
or  green  too  young :  and  I  think  the  mixture  very  becoming 
to  you ;  and  I  think  you  will  never  get  such  a  pretty  cap 
again,  at  least  in  Cranford."  It  was  fully  out,  so  far,  at 
least. 

"  Then,  Mary  Smith,  will  you  tell  me  what  you  did  mean, 
by  speaking  as  you  did,  and  convincing  me  against  my  will, 
and  giving  me  a  bad  night  ?  " 

"  I  meant  —  O  Miss  Pole,  I  meant  to  surprise  you  with 
a  present  from  Paris ;  and  I  thought  it  would  be  a  cap. 
Mrs.  Gordon  was  to  choose  it,  and  Mr.  Ludovic  to  bring  it. 
I  dare  say  it  is  in  England  now ;  only  it's  not  a  cap.  And 
I  did  not  want  you  to  buy  Johnson's  cap,  when  I  thought  I 
was  getting  another  for  you." 

Miss  Pole  found  this  speech  "  muddle-headed,"  I  have  no 
doubt,  though  she  did  not  say  so,  only  making  an  odd  noise 
of  perplexity.  I  went  on :  "I  wrote  to  Mrs.  Gordon,  and 
asked  her  to  get  you  a  present  —  something  new  and  pretty. 
I  meant  it  to  be  a  dress,  but  I  suppose  I  did  not  say  so ;  I 
thought  it  would  be  a  cap,  for  Paris  is  so  famous  for  caps, 
and  it  is  —  " 

"  You  're  a  good  girl,  Mary,"  (I  was  past  thirty,  but  did 
not  object  to  being  called  a  girl ;  and,  indeed,  I  generally 
felt  like  a  girl  at  Cranford,  where  everybody  was  so  much 


THE   CAGE    AT    CRANFORD.  139 

older  than  I  was,)  "  but  when  you  want  a  thing,  say  what 
you  want ;  it  is  the  best  way  in  general.  And  now  I  sup- 
pose Mrs.  Gordon  has  bought  something  quite  different  ?  — 
a  pair  of  shoes,  I  dare  say,  for  people  talk  a  deal  of  Paris 
shoes.  Anyhow,  I  'm  just  as  much  obliged  to  you,  Mary, 
my  dear.  Only  you  should  not  go  and  spend  your  money 
on  me." 

"  It  was  not  much  money  ;  and  it  was  not  a  pair  of  shoes. 
You  '11  let  me  go  and  get  the  cap,  won't  you  ?  It  was  so 
pretty  —  somebody  will  be  sure  to  snatch  it  up." 

"  I  don't  like  getting  a  cap  that 's  sure  to  be  unbecoming." 

"  But  it  is  not ;  it  was  not.  I  never  saw  you  look  so  well 
in  anything,"  said  I. 

"  Mary,  Mary,  remember  who  is  the  father  of  lies !  " 

"  But  he  's  not  my  father,"  exclaimed  I,  in  a  hurry,  for  I 
saw  Mrs.  Fitz  Adam  go  down  the  street  in  the  direction  of 
Johnson's  shop.  "  I  '11  eat  my  words ;  they  were  all  false : 
only  just  let  me  run  down  and  buy  you  that  cap  —  that 
pretty  cap." 

"  Well !  run  off,  child.  I  liked  it  myself  till  you  put  me 
out  of  taste  with  it." 

I  brought  it  back  in  triumph  from  under  Mrs.  FitzAdam's 
very  nose,  as  she  was  hanging  in  meditation  over  it ;  and 
the  more  we  saw  of  it,  the  more  we  felt  pleased  with  our 
purchase.  We  turned  it  on  this  side,  and  we  turned  it  on 
that ;  and  though  we  hurried  it  away  into  Miss  Pole's  bed- 
room at  the  sound  of  a  double  knock  at  the  door,  when  we 
found  it  was  only  Miss  Matty  and  Mr.  Peter,  Miss  Pole 
could  not  resist  the  opportunity  of  displaying  it,  and  said  in 
a  solemn  way  to  Miss  Matty :  "  Can  I  speak  to  you  for  a 
few  minutes  in  private  ?  "  And  I  knew  feminine  delicacy 
too  well  to  explain  what  this  grave  prelude  was  to  lead  to ; 
aware  how  immediately  Miss  Matty's  anxious  tremor  would 
be  allayed  by  the  sight  of  the  cap.  I  had  to  go  on  talk- 
ing to  Mr.  Peter,  however,  when  I  would  far  rather  have 


140  MRS.    GASKELL. 

been  in  the  bedroom,  and  heard  the  observations  and  com- 
ments. 

We  talked  of  the  new  cap  all  day  ;  what  gowns  it  would 
suit ;  whether  a  certain  bow  was  not  rather  too  coquettish 
for  a  woman  of  Miss  Pole's  age.  "  No  longer  young,"  as 
she  called  herself,  after  a  little  struggle  with  the  words, 
though  at  sixty-five  she  need  not  have  blushed  as  if  she 
were  telling  a  falsehood.  But  at  last  the  cap  was  put  away, 
and  with  a  wrench  we  turned  our  thoughts  from  the  subject 
We  had  been  silent  for  a  little  while,  each  at  our  work  with 
a  candle  between  us,  when  Miss  Pole  began  :  — 

"  It  was  very  kind  of  you,  Mary,  to  think  of  giving  me  a 
present  from  Paris." 

"  Oh,  I  was  only  too  glad  to  be  able  to  get  you  some- 
thing! I  hope  you  will  like  it,  though  it  is  not  what  I 
expected." 

"  I  am  sure  I  shall  like  it.  And  a  surprise  is  always  so 
pleasant." 

"  Yes ;  but  I  think  Mrs.  Gordon  has  made  a  very  odd 
choice." 

"  I  wonder  what  it  is.  I  don't  like  to  ask,  but  there 's  a 
great  deal  in  anticipation ;  I  remember  hearing  dear  Miss 
Jenkyns  say  that '  anticipation  was  the  soul  of  enjoyment/ 
or  something  like  that.  Now  there  is  no  anticipation  in  a 
surprise  ;  that 's  the  worst  of  it." 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  what  it  is  ?  " 

"  Just  as  you  like,  my  dear.  If  it  is  any  pleasure  to  you, 
I  am  quite  willing  to  hear." 

"Perhaps  I  had  better  not.  It  is  something  quite  dif- 
ferent to  what  I  expected,  and  meant  to  have  got ;  and  I  'm 
not  sure  if  I  like  it  as  well." 

"  Relieve  your  mind,  if  you  like,  Mary.  In  all  dis- 
appointments sympathy  is  a  great  balm." 

"  Well,  then,  it 's  something  not  for  you;  it's  for  Polly. 
It 's  a  cage.  Mrs.  Gordon  says  they  make  such  pretty  ones 
in  Paris." 


THE   CAGE  AT   CEANFORD.  141 

I  could  see  that  Miss  Pole's  first  emotion  was  disappoint- 
ment. But  she  was  very  fond  of  her  cockatoo,  and  the 
thought  of  his  smartness  in  his  new  habitation  made  her  bo 
reconciled  in  a  moment ;  besides  that  she  was  really  grate- 
ful to  me  for  having  planned  a  present  for  her. 

"  Polly !  Well,  yes ;  his  old  cage  is  very  shabby ;  he  is 
so  continually  pecking  at  it  with  his  sharp  bill.  I  dare  say 
Mrs.  Gordon  noticed  it  when  she  called  here  last  October. 
I  shall  always  think  of  you,  Mary,  when  I  see  him  in  it. 
Now  we  can  have  him  in  the  drawing-room,  for  I  dare  say 
a  French  cage  will  be  quite  an  ornament  to  the  room." 

And  so  she  talked  on,  till  we  worked  ourselves  up  into 
high  delight  at  the  idea  of  Polly  in  his  new  abode,  present- 
able in  it  even  to  the  Honorable  Mrs.  Jamieson.  The  next 
morning  Miss  Pole  said  she  had  been  dreaming  of  Polly 
with  her  new  cap  on  his  head,  while  she  herself  sat  on  a 
perch  in  the  new  cage  and  admired  him.  Then,  as  if 
ashamed  of  having  revealed  the  fact  of  imagining  "such 
arrant  nonsense  "  in  her  sleep,  she  passed  on  rapidly  to  the 
philosophy  of  dreams,  quoting  some  book  she  had  lately 
been  reading,  which  was  either  too  deep  in  itself,  or  too 
confused  in  her  repetition  for  me  to  understand  it.  After 
breakfast,  we  had  the  cap  out  again ;  and  that  in  its  differ- 
ent aspects  occupied  us  for  an  hour  or  so ;  and  then,  as  it 
was  a  fine  day,  we  turned  into  the  garden,  where  Polly  was 
hung  on  a  nail  outside  the  kitchen  window.  He  clamored 
and  screamed  at  the  sight  of  his  mistress,  who  went  to  look 
for  an  almond  for  him.  I  examined  his  cage  meanwhile, 
old  discolored  wicker-work,  clumsily  made  by  a  Cranford 
basket-maker.  I  took  out  Mrs.  Gordon's  letter ;  it  was 
dated  the  loth,  and  this  was  the  20th,  for  I  had  kept  it 
secret  for  two  days  in  my  pocket.  Mr.  Ludovic  was  on 
the  point  of  setting  out  for  England  when  she  wrote. 

"  Poor  Polly !  "  said  I,  as  Miss  Pole,  returning,  fed  him 
with  the  almond. 


142  MRS.    GASKELL. 

"  All !  Polly  .does  not  know  what  a  pretty  cage  he  la 
going  to  have,"  said  she,  talking  to  him  as  she  would  have 
done  to  a  child ;  and  then  turning  to  me,  she  asked  when  I 
thought  it  would  come  ?  "We  reckoned  up  dates,  and  made 
out  that  it  might  arrive  that  very  day.  So  she  called  to  her 
little  stupid  servant-maiden  Fanny,  and  bade  her  go  out  and 
buy  a  great  brass-headed  nail,  very  strong,  strong  enough  to 
bear  PcUy  and  the  new  cage,  and  we  all  three  weighed  the 
cage  in  our  hands,  and  on  her  return  she  was  to  come  up 
into  the  drawing-room  with  the  nail  and  a  hammer. 

Fanny  was  a  long  time,  as  she  always  was,  over  her  er- 
rands ;  but  as  soon  as  she  came  back,  we  knocked  the  nail, 
with  solemn  earnestness,  into  the  house- wall,  just  outside  the 
drawing-room  window ;  for,  as  Miss  Pole  observed,  when  I 
was  not  there  she  had  no  one  to  talk  to,  and  as  in  summer- 
iime  she  generally  sat  with  the  window  open,  she  could  com- 
bine two  purposes,  the  giving  air  and  sun  to  Polly-Cock- 
atoo, and  the  having  his  agreeable  companionship  in  her 
solitary  hours. 

"  When  it  rains,  my  dear,  or  even  in  a  very  hot  sun,  I 
shall  take  the  cage  in.  I  would  not  have  your  pretty  pres- 
ent spoilt  for  the  world.  It  was  very  kind  of  you  to  think 
of  it ;  I  am  quite  come  round  to  liking  it  better  than  any 
present  of  mere  dress ;  and  dear  Mrs.  Gordon  has  shown 
all  her  usual  pretty  observation  in  remembering  my  Polly- 
Cockatoo." 

"  Polly-Cockatoo  "  was  his  grand  name ;  I  had  only  once 
or  twice  heard  him  spoken  of  by  Miss  Pole  in  this  formal 
manner,  except  when  she  was  speaking  to  the  seivants; 
then  she  always  gave  him  his  full  designation,  just  as  most 
people  call  their  daughters  Miss,  in  speaking  of  them  to 
strangers  or  servants.  But  since  Polly  was  to  have  a  new 
cage,  and  all  the  way  from  Paris  too,  Miss  Pole  evidently 
thought  it  necessary  to  treat  him  with  unusual  respect. 

We  were  obliged  to  go  out  to  pay  some  calls ;  but  we  left 


THE    CAGE  AT   CRANFORD.  143 

strict  orders  with  Fanny  what  to  do  if  the  cage  arrived  in 
our  absence,  as  (we  had  calculated)  it  might.  Miss  Pole 
stood  ready  bonneted  and  shawled  at  the  kitchen  door,  I 
behind  her,  and  cook  behind  Fanny,  each  of  us  listening  to 
the  conversation  of  the  other  two. 

"  And  Fanny,  mind  if  it  comes  you  coax  Polly- Cockatoo 
nicely  into  it.  He  is  very  particular,  and  may  be  attached 
(o  his  old  cage,  though  it  is  so  shabby.  Remember,  birds 
have  their  feelings  as  much  as  we  have !  Don't  hurry  him 
in  making  up  his  mind." 

"Please,  ma'am,  I  think  an  almond  would  help  him  to 
get  over  his  feelings,"  said  Fanny,  dropping  a  curtsey  at 
evejy  speech,  as  she  had  been  taught  to  do  at  her  charity 
school. 

"  A  very  good  idea,  very.  If  I  have  my  keys  in  my 
pocket  I  will  give  you  an  almond  for  him.  I  think  he  is 
sure  to  like  the  view  up  the  street  from  the  window;  he 
likes  seeing  people,  I  think." 

"  It 's  but  a  dull  look-out  into  the  garden ;  nowt  but 
dumb  flowers,"  said  cook,  touched  by  this  allusion  to  the 
cheerfulness  of  the  street,  as  contrasted  with  the  view  from 
her  own  kitchen  window. 

"  It 's  a  very  good  look-out  for  busy  people,"  said  Miss 
Pole,  severely.  And  then,  feeling  she  was  likely  to  get 
the  worst  of  it  in  an  encounter  with  her  old  servant,  she 
withdrew  with  meek  dignity,  being  deaf  to  some  sharp  re- 
ply ;  and  of  course  I,  being  bound  to  keep  order,  was  deaf 
too.  If  the  truth  must  be  told,  we  rather  hastened  oui 
steps,  until  we  had  banged  the  street  door  behind  us. 

We  called  on  Miss  Matty,  of  course ;  and  then  on  Mrs. 
Hoggins.  It  seemed  as  if  ill-luck  would  have  it  that  we 
went  to  the  only  two  households  of  Cranford  where  there 
was  the  encumbrance  of  a  man,  and  in  both  places  the  man 
was  where  he  ought  not  to  have  been  —  namely,  in  his  own 
house,  and  in  the  way.  Miss  Pole  —  out  of  civility  to  me, 


144  MRS.    GASKELL. 

and  because  she  really  was  full  of  the  new  cage  for  Polly 
and  because  we  all  in  Cranford  relied  on  the  sympathy  of 
our  neighbors  in  the  veriest  trifle  that  interested  us  —  told 
Miss  Matty,  and  Mr.  Peter,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hoggins ;  he 
was  standing  in  the  drawing-room,  booted  and  spurred,  and 
eating  his  hunk  of  bread  and  cheese  in  the  very  presence 
of  his  aristocratic  wife,  my  lady  that  was.  As  Miss  Pole 
said  afterwards,  if  refinement  was  not  to  be  found  in  Cran- 
ford, blessed  as  it  was  with  so  many  scions  of  county 
families,  she  did  not  know  where  to  meet  with  it.  Bread 
and  cheese  in  a  drawing-room !  Onions  next. 

But  for  all  Mr.  Hoggins's  vulgarity,  Miss  Pole  told  him 
of  the  present  she  was  about  to  receive. 

"  Only  think  !  a  new  cage  for  Polly  —  Polly  —  Polly- 
Cockatoo,  you  know,  Mr.  Hoggins.  You  remember  him, 
and  the  bite  he  gave  me  once  because  he  wanted  to  be  put 
back  in  his  cage,  pretty  bird  ?  " 

"  I  only  hope  the  new  cage  will  be  strong  as  well  as 

pretty,  for  I  must  say  a "  He  caught  a  look  from  his 

wife,  I  think,  for  he  stopped  short.  "Well,  we're  old 
friends,  Polly  and  I,  and  he  put  some  practice  in  my  way 
once.  I  shall  be  up  the  street  this  afternoon,  and  perhaps 
I  shall  step  in  and  see  this  smart  Parisian  cage." 

"  Do  ! "  said  Miss  Pole,  eagerly.  "  Or,  if  you  are  in  a 
hurry,  look  up  at  my  drawing-room  window;  if  the  cage 
is  come,  it  will  be  hanging  out  there,  and  Polly  in  it." 

We  had  passed  the  omnibus  that  met  the  train  from 
London  some  time  ago,  so  we  were  not  surprised  as  we  re- 
turned home  to  see  Fanny  half  out  of  the  window,  and 
cook  evidently  either  helping  or  hindering  her.  Then  they 
both  took  their  heads  in ;  but  there  was  no  cage  hanging 
up.  We  hastened  up  the  steps. 

Both  Fanny  and  the  cook  met  us  in  the  passage. 

"  Please,  ma'am,"  said  Fanny,  "  there 's  no  bottom  to  the 
cage,  and  Polly  would  fly  away." 


THE   CAGE   AT   CRANFORD.  145 

"  A  nd  there 's  no  top,"  exclaimed  cook.  "  He  might  get 
out  at  the  top  quite  easy." 

•'  Let  me  see,"  said  Miss  Pole,  brushing  past,  thinking 
no  doubt  that  her  superior  intelligence  was  all  that  was 
needed  to  set  things  to  rights.  On  the  ground  lay  a  bun^ 
die,  or  a  circle  of  hoops,  neatly  covered  over  with  calico,  no 
more  like  a  cage  for  Polly-Cockatoo  than  I  am  like  a  cage. 
Cook  took  something  up  between  her  finger  and  thumb,  and 
lifted  the  unsightly  present  from  Paris.  How  I  wish  it  had 
stayed  there !  —  but  foolish  ambition  has  brought  people  to 
ruin  before  now;  and  my  twenty  shillings  are  gone,  sure 
enough,  and  there  must  be  some  use  or  some  ornament  in- 
tended by  the  maker  of  the  thing  before  us. 

"Don't  you  think  it's  a  mousetrap,  ma'am?"  asked 
Fanny,  dropping  her  little  curtsey. 

For  reply,  the  cook  lifted  up  the  machine,  and  showed 
how  easily  mice  might  run  out ,'  and  Fanny  shrank  back 
abashed.  Cook  was  evidently  set  against  the  new  inven- 
tion, and  muttered  about  its  being  all  of  a  piece  with 
French  things  —  French  cooks,  French  plums,  (nasty  dried- 
up  things,)  French  rolls  (as  had  no  substance  in  'em.) 

Miss  Pole's  good  manners,  and  desire  of  making  the  best 
of  things  in  my  presence,  induced  her  to  try  and  drown 
cook's  mutterings. 

"  Indeed,  I  think  it  will  make  a  very  nice  cage  for  Polly- 
Cockatoo.  How  pleased  he  will  be  to  go  from  one  hoop  to 
another,  just  like  a  ladder,  and  with  a  board  or  two  at  the 
bottom,  and  nicely  tied  up  at  the  top " 

Fanny  was  struck  with  a  new  idea. 

"  Please,  ma'am,  my  sister-in-law  has  got  an  aunt  as  lives 
lady's-maid  with  Sir  John's  daughter  —  Miss  Arley.  And 
they  did  say  as  she  wore  iron  petticoats  all  made  of 
hoops " 

"  Nonsense,  Fanny ! "  we  all  cried ;  for  such  a  thing  had 
not  been  heard  of  in  all  Drumble,  let  alone  Cranford,  and  I 
7  j 


H6  MRS.    GASKELL. 

was  rather  looked  upon  in  the  light  of  a  fast  young  woman 
by  all  the  laundresses  of  Cranford,  because  I  had  two  corded 
petticoats. 

"  Go  mind  thy  business,  wench,"  said  cook,  with  the  ut- 
most contempt ;  "  I  '11  warrant  we  '11  manage  th'  cage  without 
thy  help." 

"  It  is  near  dinner-time,  Fanny,  and  the  cloth  not  laid," 
said  Miss  Pole,  hoping  the  remark  might  cut  two  ways ; 
but  cook  had  no  notion  of  going.  She  stood  on  the  bottom 
step  of  the  stairs,  holding  the  Paris  perplexity  aloft  in  the 
air. 

"  It  might  do  for  a  meat-safe,"  said  she.  "  Cover  it  o'er 
wi'  canvas,  to  keep  th'  flies  out.  It  is  a  good  framework,  I 
reckon,  anyhow ! "  She  held  her  head  on  one  side,  like  a 
connoisseur  in  meat-safes,  as  she  was. 

Miss  Pole  said,  "  Are  you  sure  Mrs.  Gordon  called  it  a 
cage,  Mary?  Because  she  is  a  woman  of  her  word,  and 
would  not  have  called  it  so  if  it  was  not." 

"  Look  here  ;  I  have  the  letter  in  my  pocket." 

" '  I  have  wondered  how  I  could  best  fulfil  your  commis- 
sion for  me  to  purchase  something  to  the  value  of  —  um, 
um,  never  mind  —  'fashionable  and  pretty  for  dear  Miss 
Pole,  and  at  length  I  have  decided  upon  one  of  the  new 
kind  of  "  cages  " '  (look  here,  Miss  Pole  ;  here  is  the  word, 
CAGE),'  which  are  made  so  much  lighter  and  more  ele- 
gant in  Paris  than  in  England.  Indeed,  I  am  not  sure  if 
they  have  ever  reached  you,  for  it  is  not  a  month  since  I 
saw  the  first  of  the  kind  in  Paris.' " 

"Does  she  say  anything  about  Polly-Cockatoo?"  asked 
Miss  Pole.  "  That  would  settle  the  matter  at  once,  as 
showing  that  she  had  him  in  her  mind." 

"  No  —  nothing." 

Just  then  Fanny  came  along  the  passage  with  the  tray 
full  of  dinner  things  in  her  hands.  When  she  had  put 
them  down,  she  stood  at  the  door  of  the  dining-room  taking 


THE   CAGE  AT    CRANFORD.  147 

a  distant  view  of  the  article.  "  Please,  ma'am,  it  looks  like 
a  petticoat  without  any  stuff  in  it ;  indeed  it  does,  if  I  'm  to 
be  whipped  for  saying  it." 

But  she  only  drew  down  upon  herself  a  fresh  objurgation 
from  the  cook  ;  and  sorry  and  annoyed,  I  seized  the  oppor- 
tunity of  taking  the  thing  out  of  cook's  hand,  and  carrying 
it  up  stairs,  for  it  was  full  time  to  get  ready  for  dinner.  But 
we  had  very  little  appetite  for  our  meal,  and  kept  constantly 
making  suggestions,  one  to  the  other,  as  to  the  nature  and 
purpose  of  this  Paris  "  cage,"  but  as  constantly  snubbing 
poor  little  Fanny's  reiteration  of  "  Please,  ma'am,  I  do  be- 
lieve it's  a  kind  of  petticoat  —  indeed  I  do."  At  length 
Miss  Pole  turned  upon  her  with  almost  as  much  vehemence 
as  cook  had  done,  only  in  choicer  language. 

•*  Don't  be  so  silly,  Fanny.  Do  you  think  ladies  are  like 
children,  and  must  be  put  in  go-carts  ;  or  need  wire-guards 
like  fires  to  surround  them ;  or  can  get  warmth  out  of  bits  of 
whalebone  and  steel;  a  likely  thing  indeed!  Don't  keep 
talking  about  what  you  don't  understand." 

So  our  maiden  was  mute  for  the  rest  of  the  meal.  After 
dinner  we  had  Polly  brought  up  stairs  in  her  old  cage,  and  I 
held  out  the  new  one,  and  we  turned  it  about  in  every  way. 
At  length  Miss  Pole  said  :  — 

"  Put  Polly- Cockatoo  back,  and  shut  him  up  in  his  cage. 
You  hold  this  French  thing  up,"  (alas !  that  my  present 
should  be  called  a  "  thing,")  "  and  I  '11  sew  a  bottom  on  to 
it.  I'll  lay  a  good  deal,  they've  forgotten  to  sew  in  the 
bottom  before  sending  it  off."  So  I  held  and  she  sewed ; 
and  then  she  held,  and  1  sewed,  till  it  was  all  done.  Just 
as  we  had  put  Polly- Cockatoo  in,  and  were  closing  up  the 
top  with  a  pretty  piece  of  old  yellow  ribbon  —  and,  indeed, 
it  was  not  a  bad-looking  cage  after  all  our  trouble  —  Mr. 
Hoggins  came  up  stairs,  having  been  seen  by  Fanny  before 
he  had  time  to  knock  at  the  door. 

u  Hallo  ! "  :*aid  he,  almost  tumbling  over  us,  as  we  were 
sitting  on  the  floor  at  our  work.  "What 's  this  ?  " 


148  MRS.    GASKELL. 

"  It 's  this  pretty  present  for  Polly- Cockatoo,"  said  MLsa 
Pole,  raising  herself  up  with  as  much  dignity  as  she  could, 
"  that  Mary  has  had  sent  from  Paris  for  me."  Miss  Pole 
was  in  great  spirits  now  we  had  got  Polly  in  ;  I  can 't  say 
that  I  was. 

Mr.  Hoggins  began  to  laugh  in  his  boisterous  vulgar  way. 

"  For  Polly  —  ha !  ha !  It 's  meant  for  you,  Miss  Pole 
—  ha !  ha !  It 's  a  new  invention  to  hold  your  gowns  out  — 
ha!  ha!" 

"  Mr.  Hoggins  !  you  may  be  a  surgeon,  and  a  very  clever 
one,  but  nothing  —  not  even  your  profession  —  gives  you  a 
right  to  be  indecent." 

Miss  Pole  was  thoroughly  roused,  and  I  trembled  in  my 
shoes.  But  Mr.  Hoggins  only  laughed  the  more.  Polly 
screamed  in  concert,  but  Miss  Pole  stood  in  stiff  rigid  pro- 
priety, very  red  in  the  face. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Pole,  I  am  sure.  But  I  am 
pretty  certain  I  am  right.  It's  no  indecency  that  I  can 
see ;  my  wife  and  Mrs.  Fitz Adam  take  in  a  Paris  fashion- 
book  between  'em,  and  I  can't  help  seeing  the  plates  of 
fashions  sometimes  —  ha!  ha!  ha!  Look,  Polly  has  got 
out  of  his  queer  prison  —  ha !  ha !  ha !  " 

Just  then  Mr.  Peter  came  in ;  Miss  Matty  was  so  curious 
to  know  if  the  expected  present  had  arrived.  Mr.  Hoggins 
took  him  by  the  arm,  and  pointed  to  the  poor  thing  lying 
on  the  ground,  but  could  not  explain  for  laughing.  Miss 
Pole  said :  — 

"  Although  I  am  not  accustomed  to  give  an  explanation 
of  my  conduct  to  gentlemen,  yet,  being  insulted  in  my  own 
house  by  —  by  Mr.  Hoggins,  I  must  appeal  to  the  brother 
of  my  old  friend  —  rny  very  oldest  friend.  Is  this  article 
a  lady's  petticoat,  or  a  bird's  cage  ?  " 

She  held  it  up  as  she  made  this  solemn  inquiry.  Mr. 
Hoggins  seized  the  moment  to  leave  the  room,  in  shame,  as 
I  supposed,  but,  in  reality,  to  fetch  his  wife's  fashion-book ; 


THE   CAGE   AT    CRANFORD.  149 

and,  before  I  Lad  completed  the  narration  of  the  story  of 
my  unlucky  commission,  he  returned,  and,  holding  the 
fashion-plate  open  by  the  side  of  the  extended  article, 
demonstrated  the  identity  of  the  two. 

But  Mr.  Peter  had  always  a  smooth  way  of  turning  off 
anger,  by  either  his  fun  or  a  compliment.  "  It  is  a  cage," 
said  he,  bowing  to  Miss  Pole;  "but  it  is  a  cage  for  an 
angel,  instead  of  a  bird  !  Come  along,  Hoggins,  I  want  to 
speak  to  you ! " 

And,  with  an  apology,  he  took  the  offending  and  victo- 
rious surgeon  out  of  Miss  Pole's  presence.  For  a  good 
while  we  said  nothing ;  and  we  were  now  rather  shy  of 
little  Fanny's  superior  wisdom  when  she  brought  up  tea. 
But  towards  night  our  spirits  revived,  and  we  were  quite 
ourselves  again,  when  Miss  Pole  proposed  that  we  should 
cut  up  the  pieces  of  steel  or  whalebone  —  which,  to  do  them 
justice,  were  very  elastic  —  and  make  ourselves  two  good 
comfortable  English  calashes  out  of  thorn  with  the  aid  of  a 
piece  of  dyed  silk  which  Miss  Pole  had  by  her. 


VERSES  ON  SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY. 

Br  EDMUND   SPENSER. 

YOU  knew  —  who  knew  not  r  —  AstropheL 
(That  I  should  live  to  say  I  knew, 
And  have  not  in  possession  still !) 
Things  known  permit  me  to  renew  : 
Of  him  you  know  his  merit  such, 
I  cannot  say  —  you  hear  —  too  much. 

Within  these  woods  of  Arcady, 

He  chief  delight  and  pleasure  took ; 
And  on  the  mountain  Partheny, 
Upon  the  crystal  liquid  brook, 
The  Muses  met  him  every  day, 
That  taught  him  song  to  write  and  say. 

When  he  descended  from  the  mount, 

His  personage  seemed  most  divine ; 
A  thousand  graces  one  might  count 
Upon  his  lovely  cheerful  eyne. 

To  hear  him  speak  and  sweetly  smile, 
You  were  in  Paradise  the  while. 

A  sweet  attractive  kind  of  grace, 

A  full  assurance  given  by  looks  ; 
Continual  comfort  in  a  face, 

The  lineaments  of  Gospel  books : 


VERSES   ON  SIR  PHILIP    SIDNEY.  lol 

I  trow  that  countenance  cannot  lie, 
Whose  thoughts  are  legible  in  th'  eye. 

Above  all  others,  this  is  he, 

Which  erst  approved  in  his  song 
That  love  and  honor  might  agree, 

And  that  pure  love  will  do  no  wrong. 
Sweet  saints,  it  is  no  sin  or  blame 
To  love  a  man  of  virtuous  name. 

Did  never  love  so  sweetly  breathe 

In  any  mortal  breast  before  : 
Did  never  Mu?e  inspire  beneath 
A  poet's  brain  with  finer  store. 

He  wrote  of  love  with  high  conceit. 
And  beauty  rear'd  above  her  height. 


PRESCOTFS  INFIRMITY  OF  SIGHT. 

BY   GEORGE  TICKNOR. 


"VY^HEX  the  «  Ferdinand  and  Isabella"  was  published, 
T  ?  in  the  winter  of  1837—8,  its  author  was  nearly 
forty-two  years  old.  His  character,  some  of  whose  traits 
had  been  prominent  from  childhood,  while  others  had  been 
slowly  developed,  was  fully  formed.  His  habits  were  set- 
tled for  life.  He  had  a  perfectly  well-defined  individuality, 
as  everybody  knew  who  knew  anything  about  his  occupa- 
tions and  ways. 

Much  of  what  went  to  constitute  this  individuality  was 
the  result  of  his  infirmity  of  sight,  and  of  the  unceasing 
struggle  he  had  made  to  overcome  the  difficulties  it  entailed 
upon  him.  For,  as  we  shall  see  hereafter,  the  thought  of 
this  infirmity,  and  of  the  embarrassments  it  brought  with  it, 
was  ever  before  him.  It  colored,  and  in  many  respects  it 
controlled,  his  whole  life. 

The  violent  inflammation  that  resulted  from  the  fierce 
attack  of  rheumatism  in  the  early  months  of  1815  first  start- 
led him,  I  think,  with  the  apprehension  that  he  might  pos- 
sibly be  deprived  of  sight  altogether,  and  that  thus  his  future 
years  would  be  left  in  •*  total  eclipse,  without  all  hope  of 
day."  But  from  this  dreary  apprehension,  his  recovery, 
slow,  and  partial  as  it  was,  and  the  buoyant  spirits  that  en- 
tered so  largely  into  his  constitution,  at  last  relieved  him. 
He  even,  from  time  to  time,  as  the  disease  fluctuated  to  ind 
fro,  had  hopes  of  an  entire  restoration  of  his  sight. 


PRESCOTT'S   INFIRMITY   OF   SIGHT.  153 

But  beftre  long,  he  began  to  judge  things  more  exactly 
as  they  were,  and  saw  plainly  that  anything  like  a  full  re- 
covery of  his  sight  was  improbable,  if  not  impossible.  He 
turned  his  thoughts,  therefore,  to  the  resources  that  would 
still  remain  to  him.  The  prospect  was  by  no  means  a  pleas- 
ant one,  but  he  looked  at  it  steadily  and  calmly  All 
thought  of  the  profession  which  had  long  been  so  tempting 
to  him  he  gave  up.  He  saw  that  he  could  never  fulfil  its 
duties.  But  intellectual  occupation  he  could  not  give  up. 
It  was  a  gratification  and  resource  which  his  nature  de- 
manded, and  would  not  be  refused..  The  difficulty  was  to 
find  out  how  it  could  be  obtained.  During  the  three  months 
of  his  confinement  in  total  darkness  at  St.  Michael's,  he  first 
began  to  discipline  his  thoughts  to  such  orderly  composition 
in  his  memory  as  he  might  have  written  down  on  paper,  if 
his  sight  had  permitted  it.  "  I  have  cheated,"  he  says,  in  a 
letter  to  his  family  written  at  the  end  of  that  discouraging 
period,  —  "I  have  cheated  many  a  moment  of  tedium  by 
compositions  which  were  soon  banished  from  my  mind  for 
want  of  an  amanuensis." 

Among  these  compositions  was  a  Latin  ode  to  his  friend 
Gardiner,  which  was  prepared  wholly  without  books,  but 
which,  though  now  lost,  like  the  rest  of  his  Latin  verses,  he 
repeated  years  afterwards  to  his  Club,  who  did  not  fail  to 
think  it  good.  It  is  evident,  however,  that,  for  a  consider- 
able time,  he  resorted  to  such  mental  occupations  and  exer- 
cises rather  as  an  amusement  than  as  anything  more  serious. 
Nor  did  he  at  first  go  far  with  them  even  as  a  light  and  tran- 
sient relief  from  idleness  ;  for,  though  he  never  gave  them 
up  altogether,  and  though  they  at  last  became  a  very  impor- 
tant element  in  his  success  as  an  author,  he  soon  found  an 
agreeable  substitute  for  them,  at  least  so  far  as  his  imme- 
diate, every-day  wants  were  concerned. 

The  substitute  to  which  I  refer,  but  which  itself  implied 
much  previous  reflection  and  thought  upon  what  he  should 
7* 


154  GEORGE   TICKXOR. 

commit  to  paper,  was  an  apparatus  to  enable  the  blind  to 
write.  He  heard  of  it  in  London  during  his  first  residence 
there  in  the  summer  of  1816.  A  lady,  at  whose  house  he 
visited  frequently,  and  who  became  interested  in  his  misfor- 
tune, "  told  him,"  as  he  says  in  a  letter  to  his  mother,  "  of  a 
newly  invented  machine  by  which  blind  people  are  enabled 
to  write.  I  have,"  he  adds,  "  before  been  indebted  to  Mrs. 
Dclafield  for  an  ingenious  candle-screen.  If  this  machine 
can  be  procured,  you  will  be  sure  to  feel  the  effects  of  it." 

He  obtained  it  at  once ;  but  he  did  not  use  it  until  nearly 
a  month  afterwards,  when,  on  the  24th  of  August,  at  Paris, 
he  wrote  home  his  first  letter  with  it,  saying,  "  It  is  a  very 
happy  invention  for  me."  And  such  it  certainly  proved  to 
be,  for  he  never  ceased  to  use  it  from  that  day ;  nor  does  it 
now  seem  possible  that,  without  the  facilities  it  afforded  him, 
he  ever  would  have  ventured  to  undertake  any  of  the  works 
which  have  made  his  name  what  it  is. 

The  machine  —  if  machine  it  can  properly  be  called  —  is 
an  apparatus  invented  by  one  of  the  well-known  Wedgewood 
family,  and  is  very  simple  both  in  its  structure  and  use.  It 
looks,  as  it  lies  folded  up  on  the  table,  like  a  clumsy 
portfolio,  bound  in  morocco,  and  measures  about  ten  inches 
by  nine  when  unopened.  Sixteen  stout  parallel  brass  wires 
fastened  on  the  right-hand  side  into  a  frame  of  the  same  size 
with  the  cover,  much  like  the  frame  of  a  school-boy's  slate, 
and  crossing  it  from  side  to  side,  mark  the  number  of  lines 
that  can  be  written  on  a  page,  and  guide  the  hand  in  its 
blind  motions.  This  framework  of  wires  is  folded  down  upon 
a  sheet  of  paper  thoroughly  impregnated  with  a  black  sub- 
stance, especially  on  its  under  surface,  beneath  which  lies 
the  sheet  of  common  paper  that  is  to  receive  the  writing. 
There  are  thus,  when  it  is  in  use,  three  layers  on  the 
right-hand  side  of  the  opened  apparatus ;  viz.  the  wires,  the 
blackened  sheet  of  paper,  and  the  white  sheet,  —  all  lying 
successively  in  contact  with  each  other,  the  two  that  are 


PRESCOTT'S   INFIRMITY  OF   SIGHT.  155 

underneath  being  held  firmly  in  their  places  by  the  frame- 
work of  wires  which  is  uppermost.  The  whole  apparatus 
is  called  a  noctograpk. 

When  it  has  been  adjusted,  as  above  described,  the  person 
using  it  writes  with  an  ivory  style,  or  with  a  style  made  of 
some  harder  substance,  like  agate,  on  the  upper  surface  of 
the  blackened  paper,  which,  wherever  the  style  presses  on 
it,  transfers  the  coloring  matter  of  its  under  surface  to  the 
white  paper  beneath  it,  —  the  writing  thus  produced  looking 
much  like  that  done  with  a  common  black-lead  pencil. 

The  chief  difficulty  in  the  use  of  such  an  apparatus 
is  obvious.  The  person  employing  it  never  looks  upon 
his  work ;  never  sees  one  of  the  marks  he  is  making.  He 
trusts  wholly  to  the  wires  for  the  direction  of  his  hand.  He 
makes  his  letters  and  words  only  from  mechanical  habit. 
He  must,  therefore,  write  straight  forward,  without  any  op- 
portunity for  correction,  however  gross  may  be  the  mistakes 
he  has  made,  or  however  sure  he  may  be  that  he  has  made 
them  ;  for,  if  he  were  to  go  back  in  order  to  correct  an  error, 
he  would  only  make  his  page  still  more  confused,  and  prob- 
ably render  it  quite  illegible.  When,  therefore,  he  has 
made  a  mistake,  great  or  small,  all  he  can  do  is  to  go  for- 
ward, and  rewrite  further  on  the  word  or  phrase  he  first  in- 
tended to  write,  rarely  attempting  to  strike  out  what  was 
wrong,  or  to  insert,  in  its  proper  place,  anything  that  may 
have  been  omitted.  It  is  plain,  therefore,  that  the  person 
who  resorts  to  this  apparatus  as  a  substitute  for  sight  ought 
previously  to  prepare  and  settle  in  his  memory  what  he 
wishes  to  write,  so  as  to  make  as  few  mistakes  as  possible. 

With  the  best  care  his  manuscript  will  not  be  very  leg- 
ible. Without  it,  he  may  be  sure  it  can  hardly  be  deci- 
phered at  all. 

That  Mr.  Prescott,  under  his  disheartening  infirmities,  — 
I  refer  not  only  to  his  imperfect  sight,  but  to  the  rheumatism 
from  which  he  was  seldom  wholly  free,  —  should,  at  the  age 


156  GEORGE    TICKXOR 

of  five-and-twenty  or  thirty,  with  no  help  but  this  simple  ap- 
paratus, have  aspired  to  the  character  of  a  historian  dealing 
with  events  that  happened  in  times  and  countries  far  distant 
from  his  own,  and  that  are  recorded  chiefly  in  foreign  lan- 
guages and  by  authors  whose  conflicting  testimony  was  often 
to  be  reconciled  by  laborious  comparison,  is  a  remarkable 
fact  in  literary  history.  It  is  a  problem  the  solution  of 
which  was,  I  believe,  never  before  undertaken ;  certainly 
never  before  accomplished.  Nor  do  I  conceive  that  he  him- 
self could  have  accomplished  it,  unless  to  his  uncommon  in- 
tellectual gifts  had  been  added  great  animal  spirits,  a  strong, 
persistent  will,  and  a  moral  courage  which  was  to  be  daunt- 
ed by  no  obstacle  that  he  might  deem  it  possible  to  remove 
by  almost  any  amount  of  effort.* 

That  he  was  not  insensible  to  the  difficulties  of  his  under- 
taking, we  have  partly  seen,  as  we  have  witnessed  how  his 
hopes  fluctuated  while  he  was  struggling  through  the  ar- 
rangements for  beginning  to"  write  his  "  Ferdinand  and  Isa- 
bella," and,  in  fact,  during  the  whole  period  of  its  compo- 
sition. But  he  showed  the  same  character,  the  same  fer- 
tility of  resource,  every  day  of  his  life,  and  provided,  both 
by  forecast  and  self-sacrifice,  against  the  embarrassments  of 
his  condition  as  they  successively  presented  themselves. 

The  first  thing  to  be  done,  and  the  thing  always  to  be  re- 
peated day  by  day,  was  to  strengthen,  as  much  as  possible, 
what  remained  of  his  sight,  and  at  any  rate,  to  do  nothing 

*  The  case  of  Thierry  —  the  nearest  known  to  me  —  was  differ- 
ent. His  great  work,  "  Histoire  de  la  Conquete  de  1'  Angletcrre  par 
les  Normands,"  was  written  before  he  became  blind.  "What  he  pub- 
lished afterward  was  '  dictated, — wonderful,  indeed,  all  of  it,  but 
especially  all  that  relates  to  what  he  did  for  the  commission  of  the 
government  concerning  the  Tiers  jfctat,  to  be  found  in  that  grand 
collection  of  "Documents  ine'dits  sur  1'Histoire  de  France,"  begun 
under  the  auspices  and  influence  of  M.  Guizot,  when  he  was  ministei 
of  Louis-Philippe. 


PRESCOTT'S   INFIRMITY   OF    SIGHT.  157 

ehat  should  tend  to  exhaust  its  impaired  powers.  In  1321, 
when  he  was  still  not  without  some  hope  of  its  recovery,  he 
made  this  memorandum.  "  I  will  make  it  my  principal  pur- 
pose to  restore  my  eye  to  its  primitive  vigor,  and  will  do 
nothing  habitually  that  can  seriously  injure  it."  To  this  end 
he  regulated  his  life  with  an  exactness  that  I  have  never 
known  equalled.  Especially  in  whatever  related  to  the 
daily  distribution  of  his  time,  whether  in  regard  to  his  intel- 
lectual labors,  to  his  social  enjoyments,  or  to  the  care  of  his 
physical  powers,  including  his  diet,  he  was  severely  exact, — 
managing  himself,  indeed,  in  this  last  respect,  under  the 
general  directions  of  his  wise  medical  adviser,  Dr.  Jackson, 
but  carrying  out  these  directions  with  an  ingenuity  and 
fidelity  all  his  own. 

He  was  an  early  riser,  although  it  was  a  great  effort  for 
him  to  be  such.  From  boyhood  it  seemed  to  be  contrary 
to  his  nature  to  get  up  betimes  in  the  morning.  He  was, 
therefore,  always  awaked,  and  after  silently,  and  sometimes 
slowly  and  with  reluctance,  counting  twenty,  so  a-s  fairly  to 
arouse  himself,  he  resolutely  sprang  out  of  bed ;  or,  if  he 
failed,  he  paid  a  forfeit,  as  a  memento  of  his  weakness,  to 
the  servant  who  had  knocked  at  his  chamber-door.*  His 
failures,  however,  were  rare.  When  he  was  called,  he  was 
told  the  state  of  the  weather  and  of  the  thermometer.  This 
was  important,  as  he  was  compelled  by  his  rheumatism  — 
almost  always  present,  and,  when  not  so,  always  appre- 
hended—  to  regulate  his  dress  with  care;  and,  finding  it 
difficult  to  do  so  in  any  other  way,  he  caused  each  of  its 
heavier  external  portions  to  be  marked  by  his  tailor  with 

*  When  he  was  a  bachelor,  the  servant,  after  waiting  a  certain 
number  of  minutes  at  the  door  without  receiving  an  answer,  went  in 
and  took  away  the  bed-clothes.  This  was,  at  that  period,  the  office 
of  faithful  Nathan  Webster,  who  was  remembered  kindly  in  Mr.  Pres- 
cott's  will,  and  who  was  for  nearly  thirty  years  in  the  family,  a  true 
and  valued  friend  of  all  its  members. 


158  GEORGE    TICKNOR. 

the  number  of  ounces  it  weighed,  and  then  put  them  on 
according  to  the  temperature,  sure  that  their  weight  would 
indicate  the  measure  of  warmth  and  protection  they  would 
afford.* 

As  soon  as  he  was  dressed,  he  took  his  early  exercise  in 
the  open  air.  This,  for  many  years,  was  done  on  horse- 
back, and,  as  he  loved  a  spirited  horse  and  was  often  think- 
ing more  of  his  intellectual  pursuits  than  of  anything  else 
while  he  was  riding,  he  sometimes  caught  a  fall.  But  he 
was  a  good  rider,  and  was  sorry  to  give  up  this  form  of 
exercise  and  resort  to  walking  or  driving,  as  he  did,  by 
ord(.T  of  his  physician,  in  the  last  dozen  years  of  his  life. 
No  weather,  except  a  severe  storm,  prevented  him  at  any 
period  from  thus,  as  he  called  it,  ."  winding  himself  up." 
Even  in  the  coldest  of  our  very  cold  winter  morning?,  it 
was  his  habit,  so  long  as  he  could  ride,  to  see  the  sun  rise  on 
a  particular  spot  three  or  four  miles  from  town.  In  a  letter 
to  Mrs.  Ticknor,  who  was  then  in  Germany,  dated  March, 
1836,  —  at  the  end  of  a  winter  memorable  for  its  extreme  se- 
verity, —  he  says,  "  You  will  give  me  credit  for  some  spunk 
when  I  tell  you  that  I  have  not  been  frightened  by  the 
zold  a  single  morning  from  a  ride  on  horseback  to  Jamaica 
Plain  and  back  again  before  breakfast.  My  mark  has  been 
to  see  the  sun  rise  by  Mr.  Greene's  school,  if  you  remember 
where  that  is."  When  the  rides  here  referred  to  were 
taken,  the  thermometer  was  often  below  zero  of  Fahrenheit. 

On  his  return  home,  after  adjusting  his  dress  anew,  with 
reference  to  the  temperature  within  doors,  he  sat  down, 
almost  always  in  a  very  gay  humor,  to  a  moderate  and  even 
spare  breakfast,  —  a  meal  he  much  liked,  because,  as  he  said, 

*  As  in  the  case  of  the  use  of  wine,  hereafter  to  be  noticed,  he 
made,  from  year  to  year,  the  most  minute  memoranda  about  the  use 
of  clothes,  finding  it  necessary  to  be  exact  on  account  of  the  rheuma- 
tism which,  besides  almost  constantly  infesting  his  limbs,  always  af- 
fected his  sight  when  it  became  severe. 


PRESCOTT'S    INFIRMITY   OF    SIGHT.  159 

he  could  then  have  his  family  with  him  in  a  quiet  way,  and 
so  begin  the  day  happily.  From  the  breakfast-table  he 
went  at  once  to  his  study.  There,  while  busied  with  what 
remained  of  his  toilet,  or  with  the  needful  arrangements  for 
his  regular  occupations,  Mrs.  Prescott  read  to  him,  generally 
from  the  morning  papers,  but  sometimes  from  the  current 
literature  of  the  day.  At  a  fixed  hour  —  seldom  later  than 
ten  —  liis  reader,  or  secretary,  came.  In  this,  as  in  every- 
thing, he  required  punctuality ;  but  he  noted  tardiness  only 
by  looking  significantly  at  his  watch ;  for  it  is  the  testimony 
of  all  his  surviving  secretaries,  that  he  never  spoke  a  severe 
word  to  either  of  them  in  the  many  years  of  their  familiar 
intercourse. 

When  they  had  met  in  the  study,  there  was  no  thought 
but  of  active  work  for  about  three  hours.*  His  infirmities, 
however,  were  always  present  to  warn  him  how  cautiously  it 
must  be  done,  and  he  was  extremely  ingenious  in  the  means 
he  devised  for  doing  it  without  increasing  them.  The 
shades  and  shutters  for  regulating  the  exact  amount  of  light 
which  should  be  admitted ;  his  own  position  relatively  to 
its  direct  rays,  and  to  those  that  were  reflected  from  sur- 
rounding objects ;  the  adaptation  of  his  dress  and  of  the 
temperature  of  the  room  to  his  rheumatic  affections ;  and 
the  different  contrivances  for  taking  notes  from  the  books 
that  were  read  to  him,  and  for  impressing  on  his  memory, 
with  the  least  possible  use  of  his  sight,  such  portions  of 

*  I  speak  here  of  the  time  during  which  he  was  busy  with  his 
Histories.  In  the  intervals  between  them,  as,  for  instance,  between 
the  "Ferdinand  and  Isabella"  and  the  "Mexico,"  between  the 
"  Mexico "  and  "  Pern,"  &c.,  his  habits  were  very  different.  At 
these  periods  he  indulged,  sometimes  for  many  months,  in  a  great 
deal  of  light,  miscellaneous  reading,  which  he  used  to  call  "  literary 
loafing."  This  he  thought  not  only  agreeable,  but  refreshing  and 
useful;  though  sometimes  he  complained  bitterly  of  himself  for  car- 
rying his  indulgences  of  this  sort  too  far. 


160  GEORGE    TICKXOE. 

each  as  were  needful  for  his  immediate  purpose.  —  were  all 
of  them  the  result  of  painstaking  experiments,  skilfully  and 
patiently  made.  But  their  ingenuity  and  adaptation  were 
less  remarkable  than  the  conscientious  consistency  with 
which  they  were  employed  from  day  to  day  for  forty 

In  relation  to  all  such  arrangements,  two  circumstances 
should  be  noted. 

The  first  is,  that  the  resources  of  his  eye  were  always 
very  small  and  uncertain,  except  for  a  few  years,  beginning 
in  1840,  when,  from  his  long-continued  prudence  or  from 
some  inscrutable  cause,  there  seemed  to  be  either  an  increa-e 
of  strength  in  the  organ,  or  else  such  a  diminution  of  its 
sensibility  as  enabled  him  to  use  it  more,  though  its  strength 
might  really  be  diminished. 

Thus,  for  instance,  he  was  able  to  use  his  eye  very  little 
in  the  preparation  of  the  "  Ferdinand  and  Isabella,"  not 
looking  into  a  book  sometimes  for  weeks  and  even  months 
together,  and  yet  occasionally  he  could  read  several  hours 
in  a  day  if  he  carefully  divided  the  whole  into  short  portions, 
so  as  to  avoid  fatigue.  While  engaged  in  the  composition 
of  the  "  Conquest  of  Mexico."  on  the  contrary,  he  was  able 
to  read  with  considerable  regularity,  and  so  he  was  while 
working  on  the  "  Conquest  of  Peru,"  though,  on  the  whole, 
with  less.* 

*  How  uncertain  was  the  state  of  his  eye,  even  when  it  was 
strongest,  may  be  seen  from  memoranda  made  at  different  times, 
within  less  than  two  years  of  each  other.  The  first  is  in  January, 
1829,  when  he  was  full  of  grateful  feelings  for  an  unexpected  increase 
of  his  powers  of  sight.  "  By  the  blessing  of  Heaven,"  he  says,  "  I 
have  been  enabled  to  have  the  free  use  of  my  eye  in  the  daytime  dur- 
ing the  last  weeks,  without  the  exception  of  a  single  day,  although 
deprived,  for  nearly  a  fortnight,  of  my  accustomed  exercise.  I  hope 
I  have  not  abused  this  great  privilege."  But  this  condition  of  thing? 
did  not  last  long.  Great  fluctuations  followed.  In  August  and  Sep- 
tember he  was  much  discouraged  by  severe  inflammations ;  and  in 
October,  1830,  when  he  had  been  slowly  writing  the  "Ferdinand 


PRESCOTT'S    INFIRMITY    OF    SIGHT.  161 

Bat  he  hud,  during  nearly  all  this  time,  another  difficulty 
to  encounter.  There  had  come  on  prematurely  that  grad- 
ual alteration  of  the  eye  which  is  the  consequence  of  advanc- 
ing years,  and  for  which  the  common  remedy  is  spectacles. 
Even  when  he  was  using  what  remained  to  him  of  sight  on 
the  "  Conquest  of  Mexico  "  with  a  freedom  which  not  a  little 
animated  him  in  his  pursuits,  he  perceived  this  discouraging 
change.  In  July,  1841,  he  says:  "  My  eye,  for  some  days, 
feels  dim.  *  I  guess  and  fear,'  as  Burns  says."  And  in 
June,  1842,  when  our  families  were  spending  together  at 
Lebanon  Springs  a  few  days  which  he  has  recorded  as 
otherwise  very  happy,  he  spoke  to  me  more  than  once  in  a 
tone  of  absolute  grief,  that  he  should  never  again  enjoy  the 
magnificent  spectacle  of  the  starry  heavens.  To  this  sad 
deprivation  he,  in  fact,  alludes  himself  in  his  Memoranda  of 
that  period,  where,  in  relation  to  his  eyes,  he  says :  "  I  find 
a  misty  veil  increasing  over  them,  quite  annoying  when 

reading.  The  other  evening  B said,  '  How  beautiful 

the  heavens  are  with  so  many  stars ! '  I  could  hardly  see 
two.  It  made  me  sad/' 

Spectacles,  however,  although  they  brought  their  appro- 
priate relief,  brought  also  an  inevitable  inconvenience. 
They  fatigued  his  eye.  He  could  use  it,  therefore,  less 
and  less,  or  if  he  used  it  at  all,  beyond  a  nicely  adjusted 
amount,  the  excess  was  followed  by  a  sort  of  irritability, 
weakness,  and  pain  in  the  organ  which  he  had  not  felt  for 
many  years.  This  went  on  increasing  with  sad  regularity. 
But  he  knew  that  it  was  inevitable,  and  submitted  to  it  pa- 
tiently. In  the  latter  part  of  his  life  he  was  able  to  use  his 
eye  very  little  indeed  for  the  purpose  ot  reading,  —  in  the 
last  year,  hardly  at  all.  Even  in  several  of  the  years  pre- 

and  Isabella  "  for  about  a  year,  his  sight  for  a  time  became  so  much 
impaired  that  he  was  brought  —  I  use  his  own  words — "  seriously  to 
consider  what  steps  he  should  take  in  relation  to  that  work,  if  his 
sight  should  fail  him  altogether." 


162  GEORGE   TICKXOR. 

ceding,  he  used  it  only  thirty-five  minutes  in  each  day, 
divided  exactly  by  the  watch  into  portions  of  five  minutes 
each,  with  at  least  half  an  hour  between,  and  always  stop- 
ping the  moment  pain  was  felt,  even  if  it  were  felt  at  the  first 
instant  of  opening  the  book.  I  doubt  whether  a  more  per- 
sistent, conscientious  care  was  ever  taken  of  an  impaired 
physical  power.  Indeed,  I  do  not  see  how  it  could  have 
been  made  more  thorough.  But  all  care  was  unavailing, 
and  he  at  last  knew  that  it  was  so.  The  decay  could  not  be 
arrested.  He  spoke  of  it  rarely,  but  when  he  perceived 
that  in  the  evening  twilight  he  could  no  longer  walk  about 
the  streets  that  were  familiar  to  him  with  his  accustomed 
assurance,  he  felt  it  deeply.  Still  he  persevered,  and  was 
as  watchful  of  what  remained  of  his  sight  as  if  his  hopes  of 
its  restoration  had  continued  unchecked.  Indeed,  I  think 
he  always  trusted  that  he  was  saving  something  by  his  anx- 
ious care ;  he  always  believed  that  great  prudence  on  one 
day  would  enable  him  to  do  a  little  more  work  on  the  next 
than  he  should  be  able  to  do  without  so  much  caution. 

The  other  circumstance  that  should  be  noticed  in  relation 
to  the  arrangements  for  his  pursuits  is,  the  continually  in- 
creased amount  of  light  he  was  obliged  to  use,  and  which  he 
could  use  without  apparent  injury. 

In  Bedford  Street,  where  he  first  began  his  experiments, 
he  could,  from  the  extreme  sensitiveness  of  his  eye,  bear 
very  little  light.  But,  even  before  he  left  that  quiet  old 
mansion,  he  cut  out  a  new  window  in  his  working-room, 
arranging  it  so  that  the  light  should  fall  more  strongly  and 
more  exclusively  upon  the  book  he  might  be  using.  This 
did  very  well  for  a  time.  But  when  he  removed  to  Beacon 
Street,  the  room  he  built  expressly  for  his  own  use  contained 
six  contiguous  windows ;  two  of  which,  though  large,  were 
glazed  each  with  a  single  sheet  of  the  finest  plate-glass, 
nicely  protected  by  several  curtains  of  delicate  fabric  and  of 
a  light-blue  color,  one  or  more  of  which  could  be  drawn  up 


PRESCOTT'S   INFIRMITY    OF    SIGHT.  163 

over  each  window  to  temper  the  light  while  the  whole  light 
that  was  admitted  through  any  one  opening  could  be  ex- 
cluded by  solid  wooden  shutters.  At  first,  though  much 
light  was  commonly  used,  these  appliances  for  diminishing 
it  were  all  more  or  less  required.  But,  gradually,  one  after 
another  of  them  was  given  up,  and,  at  last,  I  observed  that 
none  was  found  important  He  needed  and  used  all  the 
light  he  could  get. 

The  change  was  a  sad  one,  and  he  did  not  like  to  allude 
to  it.  But  during  the  last  year  of  his  life,  after  the  first 
slight  access  of  paralysis,  which  much  disturbed  the  organ 
for  a  time,  and  rendered  its  action  very  irregular,  he  spoke 
plainly  to  me.  He  said  he  must  soon  cease  to  use  his  eye 
for  any  purpose  of  study,  but  fondly  trusted  that  he  should 
always  be  able  to  recognize  the  features  of  his  friends,  and 
should  never  become  a  burden  to  those  he  loved  by  needing 
to  be  led  about.  His  hopes  were,  indeed,  fulfilled,  but  not 
without  the  sorrow  of  all.  The  day  before  his  sudden 
death  he  walked  the  streets  as  freely  as  he  had  done  for 
years. 

Still,  whatever  may  have  been  the  condition  of  his  eye  at 
any  period,  —  from  the  fierce  attack  of  1815  to  the  very  end 
•of  his  life,  —  it  was  always  a  paramount  subject  of  anxiety 
with  him.  He  never  ceased  to  think  of  it,  and  to  regulate 
the  hours,  and  almost  the  minutes,  of  his  daily  life  by  it. 
Even  in  its  best  estate  he  felt  that  it  must  be  spared  ;  in  its 
worst,  he  was  anxious  to  save  something  by  care  and  absti- 
nence. He  said,  "  he  reckoned  time  by  eyesight,  as  dis- 
tances on  railroads  are  reckoned  by  hours." 

One  thing  hi  this  connection  may  be  noted  as  remarkable. 
He  knew  that,  if  he  would  give  up  literary  labor  altogether, 
his  eye  would  be  better  at  once,  and  would  last  longer. 
His  physicians  all  told  him  so,  and  their  opinion  was  ren- 
dered certain  by  his  own  experience  ;  for  whenever  he  ceased 
to  work  for  some  time,  as  during  a  visit  to  New  York  i» 


164  GEORGE   TICKNOR. 

1842  and  a  visit  to  Europe  in  1850, —  in  short,  whenever 
he  took  a  journey  or  indulged  himself  in  holidays  of  such  a 
sort  as  prevented  him  from  looking  into  books  at  all  or 
thinking  much  about  them,  —  his  general  health  immediately 
became  more  vigorous  than  might  have  been  expected  from 
a  relief  so  transient,  and  his  sight  was  always  improved ; 
sometimes  materially  improved.  But  he  would  not  pay  the 
price.  He  perferred  to  submit,  if  it  should  be  inevitable,  to 
the  penalty  of  ultimate  blindness,  rather  than  give  up  his 
literary  pursuits. 

He  never  liked  to  work  more  than  three  hours  consecu- 
tively. At  one  o'clock,  therefore,  he  took  a  walk  of  about 
two  miles,  and  attended  to  any  little  business  abroad  that 
was  incumbent  on  him,  coming  home  generally  refreshed 
and  exhilarated,  and  ready  to  lounge  a  little  and  gossip. 
Dinner  followed,  for  the  greater  part  of  his  life  about  three 
o'clock,  although,  during  a  few  years,  he  dined  in  winter  at 
five  or  six,  which  he  preferred,  and  which  he  gave  up  only 
because  his  health  demanded  the  change.  In  the  summer 
he  always  dined  e?rly,  so  as  to  have  the  late  afternoon  for 
driving  and  exercise  during  our  hot  season. 

He  enjoyed  the  pleasures  of  the  table,  and  even  its  luxu- 
ries, more  than  most  men.  But  he  restricted  himself  care- 
fully in  the  use  of  them,  adjusting  everything  with  reference 
to  its  effect  on  the  power  of  using  his  eye  immediately  after- 
wards, and  especially  on  his  power  of  using  it  the  next  day. 
Occasional  indulgence  when  dining  out  or  with  friends  at 
home  he  found  useful,  or  at  least  not  injurious,  and  was  en- 
couraged'in  it  bj  his  medical  counsel.  But  he  dined  abroad, 
as  he  did  everything  of  the  sort,  at  regulated  intervals,  and 
not  only  determined  beforehand  in  what  he  should  deviate 
from  his  settled  habits,  but  often  made  a  record  of  the  result 
for  his  future  government. 

The  most  embarrassing  question,  however,  as  to  diet,  re- 
garded the  use  of  wine,  which,  if  at  first  it  sometimes  seemed 


PBESCOTT'S   INFIRMITY   OF    SIGHT.  165 

to  be  followed  by  bad  consequences,  was  yet,  on  the  whole, 
found  useful,  and  was  prescribed  to  him.  To  make  every- 
thing certain,  and  settle  the  precise  point  to  which  he  should 
go,  he  instituted  a  series  of  experiments,  and  between  March, 
1818,  and  November,  1820,  —  a  period  of  two  years  and 
nine  months,  —  he  recorded  the  exact  quantity  of  wine  that 
he  took  every  day,  except  the  few  days  when  he  entirely 
abstained.  It  was  Sherry  or  Madeira.  In  the  great  ma- 
jority of  cases  —  four  fifths,  I  should  think  —  it  ranged  from 
one  to  two  glasses,  but  went  up  sometimes  to  four  or  five, 
and  even  to  six.  He  settled  at  last,  upon  two  or  two  and 
a  half  as  the  quantity  best  suited  to  his  case,  and  persevered 
in  this  as  his  daily  habit,  until  the  last  year  of  his  life,  dur- 
ing which  a  peculiar  regimen  was  imposed  upon  him  from 
the  peculiar  circumstances  of  his  health.  In  all  this  I  wish 
to  be  understood  that  he  was  rigorous  with  himself,  —  much 
more  so  than  persons  thought  who  saw  him  only  when  he 
was  dining  with  friends,  and  when,  but  equally  upon  system 
and  principle,  he  was  much  more  free. 

He  generally  smoked  a  single  weak  cigar  after  dinner, 
and  listened  at  the  same  time  to  light  reading  from  Mrs. 
Prescott.  A  walk  of  two  miles  —  more  or  less  —  followed ; 
but  always  enough,  after  the  habit  of  riding  was  given  up,  to 
make  the  full  amount  of  six  miles'  walking  for  the  day's 
exercise,  and  then,  between  five  and  eight,  he  took  a  cup  of 
tea,  and  had  his  reader  with  him  for  work  two  hours  more. 

The  labors  of  the  day  were  now  definitively  ended.  He 
came  down  from  his  study  to  his  library,  and  either  sat 
there  or  walked  about  while  Mrs.  Prescott  read  to  him 
from  some  amusing  book,  generally  a  novel,  and,  above  all 
other  novels,  those  of  Scott  and  Miss  Edgeworth.  In  all 
this  he  took  great  solace.  He  enjoyed  the  room  as  well  as 
the  reading,  and,  as  he  moved  about,  would  often  stop  be- 
fore the  books,  —  especially  his  favorite  books,  —  and  be 
sure  that  they  were  all  in  their  proper  places,  drawn  up  ex- 


16l>  GEORGE    TICKNOR. 

actlj  to  the  front  of  their  respective  shelves,  like  soldiers 
on  a  dress-parade,  —  sometimes  speaking  of  them,  and 
almost  to  them,  as  if  they  were  personal  friends. 

At  half  past  ten,  having  first  taken  nearly  another  glass 
of  wine,  he  went  to  bed,  fell  asleep  quickly,  and  slept  soundly 
and  well.  Suppers  he  early  gave  up,  although  they  were  a 
form  of  social  intercourse  much  liked  in  his  father's  house, 
and  common  thirty  or  forty  years  ago  in  the  circle  to  which 
he  belonged.  Besides  all  other  reasons  against  them,  he 
found  that  the  lights  commonly  on  the  table  shot  their  hori- 
zontal rays  so  as  to  injure  his  suffering  organ.  Larger  even- 
ing parties,  which  were  not  so  liable  to  this  objection,  he 
liked  rather  for  their  social  influences  than  for  the  pleasure 
they  gave  him ;  but  he  was  seen  in  them  to  the  last,  though 
rarely  and  only  for  a  short  time  in  each.  Earlier  in  life, 
when  he  enjoyed  them  more  and  stayed  later,  he  would, 
in  the  coldest  winter  nights,  after  going  home,  run  up  and 
down  on  a  plank  walk,  so  arranged  in  the  garden  of  the 
Bedford-Street  house  that  he  could  do  it  with  his  eyes  shut, 
for  twenty  minutes  or  more,  in  order  that  his  system  might 
be  refreshed,  and  his  sight  invigorated,  for  the  next  morn- 
ing's work.*  Later,  unhappily,  this  was  not  needful.  His 
eye  had  lost  the  sensibility  that  gave  its  value  to  such  a 
habit. 

In  his  exercise,  at  all  its  assigned  hours,  he  was  faithful 
and  exact.  If  a  violent  storm  prevented  him  from  going 
out,  or  if  the  bright  snow  on  sunny  days  in  winter  rendered 
it  dangerous  for  him  to  expose  his  eye  to  its  brilliant  reflec- 

*  Some  persons  may  think  this  to  have  been  a  fancy  of  my 
friend,  or  an  over-nice  estimate  of  the  value  of  the  open  air.  But 
others  have  found  the  same  benefit  who  needed  it  less.  Sir  Charles 
Bell  says,  in  his  journal,  that'  he  used  to  sit  in  the  open  air  a  great 
deal,  and  read  or  draw,  because  on  the  following  day  he  found  himself 
so  much  better  able  to  work.  Some  of  the  best  passages  in  his  great 
treatises  were,  he  says,  written  under  these  circumstances. 


PRESCOTT'S    INFIRMITY    OF    SIGHT.  167 

tion,  he  would  dress  himself  as  for  the  street  and  walk  vig- 
orously about  the  colder  parts  of  the  house,  or  he  would 
saw  and  chop  fire-wood,  under  cover,  being,  in  the  latter 
case,  read  to  all  the  while. 

The  result  he  sought,  and  generally  obtained,  by  these 
efforts  was  not,  however,  always  to  be  had  without  suffering. 
The  first  mile  or  two  of  his  walk  often  cost  him  pain  — 
sometimes  sharp  pain  —  in  consequence  of  the  rheumatism, 
which  seldom  deserted  his  limbs ;  but  he  never  on  this 
account  gave  it  up;  for  regular  exercise  in  the  open  air 
was,  as  he  well  knew,  indispensable  to  the  preservation  of 
whatever  remained  of  his  decaying  sight.  He  persevered, 
therefore,  through  the  last  two  suffering  years  of  his  life, 
when  it  was  peculiarly  irksome  and  difficult  for  him  to 
move  ;  and  even  in  the  days  immediately  preceding  his  first 
attack  of  paralysis,  when  he  was  very  feeble,  he  was  out 
at  his  usual  hours.  His  will,  in  truth,  was  always  stronger 
than  the  bodily  ills  that  beset  him,  and  prevailed  over  them 
to  the  last* 

*  On  one  occasion,  when  he  was  employed  upon  a  work  that 
interested  him  because  it  related  to  a  friend,  he  was  attacked  with 
pains  that  made  a  sitting  posture  impossible.*  But  he  would  not 
yield.  He  took  his  noctograph  to  a  sofa,  and  lAielt  before  it  so  as  to 
be  able  to  continue  his  work.  This  resource,  however,  failed,  and 
then  he  laid  himself  down  flat  upon  the  floor.  This  extrarordinary 
operation  went  on  during  portions  of  nine  successive  days. 


BEATRICE. 

BY  DANTE. 

THIS  most  gentle  lady  reached  such  favor  among  the 
people,  that  when  she  passed  along  the  way  persons 
ran  to  see  her,  which  gave  me  wonderful  delight.  And 
when  she  was  near  any  one,  such  modesty  took  possession 
of  his  heart,  that  he  did  not  dare  to  raise  his  eyes  or  to  re- 
turn her  salutation ;  and  to  this,  should  any  one  doubt  it, 
many,  as  having  experienced  it,  could  bear  witness  for  me. 
She,  crowned  and  clothed  with  humility,  took  her  way,  dis- 
playing no  pride  in  that  which  she  saw  and  heard.  Many, 
when  she  had  passed,  said,  "  This  is  not  a  woman  ;  rather  is 
she  one  of  the  most  beautiful  angels  of  heaven."  Others 
said,  "  She  is  a  miracle.  Blessed  be  the  Lord  who  can  per- 
form such  a  marvel ! "  I  say  that  she  showed  herself  so 
gentle  and  so  full  of  all  beauties,  that  those  who  looked  on 
her  felt  within  themselves  a  pure  and  sweet  delight  such  as 
they  could  not  tell  in  words ;  nor  was  there  any  who  could 
look  at  her  and  not  feel  need  at  first  to  sigh.  These  and 
more  wonderful  things  proceeded  from  her,  marvellously  and 
with  power.  Wherefore  I,  thinking  on  all  this-,  proposed 
to  say  some  words,  in  which  I  would  exhibit  her  mar- 
vellous and  excellent  influences,  to  the  end  that  not  only 
those  who  might  actually  behold  her,  but  also  others,  might 
know  of  her  whatever  words  could  tell.  Then  I  wrote  this 
sonnet :  — 


BEATRICE.  169 

So  gentle  and  so  modest  doth  appear 
My  lady  when  she  giveth  her  salute, 
That  every  tongue  becometh  trembling  mute, 
Nor  do  the  eyes  to  look  upon  her  dare 

And  though  she  hears  her  praises,  she  doth  go 
Benignly  clothed  with  humility, 
And  like  a  thing  come  down  she  seems  to  be 
From  heaven  to  earth,  a  miracle  to  show. 

So  pleaseth  she  whoever  cometh  nigh, 

She  gives  the  heart  a  sweetness  through  the  eyes, 
Which  none  can  understand  who  doth  not  prove. 

And  from  her  lip  there  seems  indeed  to  move 
A  spirit  sweet  and  in  Love's  very  guise, 
Which  goeth  saying  to  the  soul,  "Ah,  sigh ! " 


A    LOVE    STORY.* 

BY  ROBERT  SOUTHEY. 
CHAPTER   I. 

RASH  MAERIAGES.  AN  EARLY  WIDOWHOOD.  AFFLICTION  BEN 
DERED  A  BLESSING  TO  THE  SUFFERERS  J  AND  TWO  ORPHAN* 
LEFT,  THOUGH  NOT  DESTITUTE,  YET  FRIENDLESS. 

Love  built  a  stately  house;  where  Fortune  came, 
And  spinning  fancies,  she  was  heard  to  say 

That  her  fine  cobwebs  did  support  the  frame; 

Whereas  they  were  supported  by  the  same. ' 
But  Wisdom  quickly  swept  them  all  away. 

HERBERT. 

MRS.  DOVE  was  the  only  child  of  a  clergyman  who 
held  a  small  vicarage  in  the  West  Riding.  Leonard 
Bacon,  her  father,  had  been  left  an  orphan  in  early  youth. 
He  had  some  wealthy  relations  by  whose  contributions  he 
was  placed  at  an  endowed  grammar-school  in  the  country, 
and  having  through  their  influence  gained  a  scholarship,  to 
which  his  own  deserts  might  have  entitled  him,  they  con- 
tinued to  assist .  him  —  sparingly  enough  indeed  —  at  the 
University,  till  he  succeeded  to  a  fellowship.  Leonard  was 
made  cf  Nature's  finest  clay,  and  Nature  had  tempered  it 
with  the  choicest  dews  of  heaven. 

He  had  a  female  cousin  about  three  years  younger  than 
himself,  and  in  like  manner  an  orphan,  equally  destitute,  but 

*  Southey  always  intended  to  complete  this  story,  but  he  did  not  live 
to  fulfil  his  purpose.  It  is  here  brought  together  for  the  first  time  in 
America,  from  the  pages  of  that  admirable  work  which  has  now  taken 
its  place  as  an  English  classic,  —  "  The  Doctor." 


A   LOVE   STORY.  171 

far  more  forlorn.  Man  hath  a  fleece  about  him  which  en- 
ables him  to  bear  the  bufferings  of  the  storm ;  — but  woman 
when  young,  and  lovely,  and  poor,  is  as  a  shorn  lamb  for 
which  the  wind  has  not  been  tempered. 

Leonard's  father  and  Margaret's  had  been  bosom  friends. 
They  were  subalterns  in  the  same  regiment,  and,  being  for  a 
long  time  stationed  at  Salisbury,  had  become  intimate  at  the 
house  of  Mr.  Trewbody,  a  gentleman  of  one  of  the  oldest 
families  in  Wiltshire.  Mr.  Trewbody  had  three  daughters. 
Melicent,  the  eldest,  was  a  celebrated  beauty,  and  the  knowl- 
edge of  this  had  not  tended  to  improve  a  detestable  temper. 
The  two  youngest,  Deborah  and  Margaret,  were  lively,  good- 
natured,  thoughtless,  and  attractive.  They  danced  with  the 
two  lieutenants,  played  to  them  on  the  spinnet,  sung  with 
them  and  laughed  with  them,  —  till  this  mirthful  intercourse 
became  serious,  and,  knowing  that  it  would  be  impossible  to 
obtain  their  father's  consent,  they  married  the  men  of  their 
hearts  without  it.  Palmer  and  Bacon  were  both  without 
fortune,  and  without  any  other  means  of  subsistence  than 
their  commissions.  For  four  years  they  were  as  happy  as 
love  could  make  them ;  at  the  end  of  that  time  Palmer  was 
seized  with*an  infectious  fever.  Deborah  was  then  far  ad- 
vanced in  pregnancy,  and  no  solicitations  could  induce  Bacon 
to  keep  from  his  friend's  bedside.  The  disease  proved  fatal ; 
it  communicated  to  Bacon  and  his  wife;  the  former  only 
survived  his  friend  ten  days,  and  he  and  Deborah  were  then 
laid  in  the  same  grave.  They  left  an  only  boy  of  three 
years  old,  and  in  less  than  a  month  the  widow  Palmer  was 
delivered  of  a  daughter. 

In  the  first  impulse  of  anger  at  the  flight  of  his  daughters, 
and  the  degradation  of  his  family,  (for  Bacon  was  the  son 
of  a  tradesman,  and  Palmer  was  nobody  knew  who,)  Mr. 
Trewbody  had  made  his  will,  and  left  the  whole  sum,  which 
he  had  designed  for  his  three  daughters,  to  the  eldest 
Whether  the  situation  of  Margaret  and  the  two  orphans 


172  ROBERT   SOUTHEY. 

might  have  touched  him,  is  perhaps  doubtful,  —  for  the  fam- 
ily were  either  light-hearted  or  hard-hearted,  and  his  heart 
was  of  the  hard  sort;  but  he  died  suddenly  a  few  months 
before  his  sons-in-law.  The  only  son,  Trewman  Trewbody, 
Esq.,  a  Wiltshire  fox-hunter,  like  his  father,  succeeded  to 
the  estate ;  and  as  he  and  his  eldest  sister  hated  each  other 
cordially,  Miss  Melicent  left  the  manor-house,  and  estab- 
lished herself  in  the  Close  at  Salisbury,  where  she  lived  in 
that  style  which  a  portion  of  £  6,000  enabled  her  in  those 
days  to  support. 

The  circumstance  which  might  appear  so  greatly  to  have 
aggravated  Mrs.  Palmer's  distress,  if  such  distress  be  capable 
of  aggravation,  prevented  her  perhaps  from  eventually  sink- 
ing under  it.  If  the  birth  of  her  child  was  no  alleviation 
of  her  sorrow,  it  brought  with  it  new  feelings,  new  duties, 
new  cause  for  exertion,  and  new  strength  for  it.  She  wrote 
to  Melicent  and  to  her  brother,  simply  stating  her  own 
destitute  situation,  and  that  of  the  orphan  Leonard ;  she  be- 
lieved that  their  pride  would  not  suffer  them  either  to  let 
her  starve  or  go  to  the  parish  for  support,  and  in  this  she 
was  not  disappointed.  An  answer  was  returned  by  Miss 
Trewbody,  informing  her  that  she  had  nobody  to  thank  but 
herself  for  her  misfortunes ;  but  that,  notwithstanding  the 
disgrace  which  she  had  brought  upon  the  family,  she  might 
expect  an  annual  allowance  of  ten  pounds  from  the  writer, 
and  a  like  sum  from  her  brother ;  upon  this  she  must  retire 
into  some  obscure  part  of  the  country,  and  pray  God  to  for- 
give her  for  the  offence  she  had  committed,  in  marrying 
beneath  her  birth,  and  against  her  father's  consent. 

Mrs.  Palmer  had  also  written  to  the  friends  of  lieutenant 
Bacon,  —  her  own  husband  had  none  who  could  assist  her. 
She  expressed  her  willingness  and  her  anxiety  to  have  the 
care  of  her  sister's  orphan,  but  represented  her  forlorn  state. 
They  behaved  more  liberally  than  her  own  kin  had  done, 
and  promised  five  pounds  a  year  as  long  as  the  boy  should 


A  LOVE  STORY.  173 

require  it.  With  this  and  her  pension  she  took  a  cottage  in 
a  retired  village.  Grief  had  acted  upon  her  heart  like  the 
rod  of  Moses  upon  the  rock  in  the  desert ;  it  had  opened 
it,  and  the  well-spring  of  piety  had  gushed  forth.  Affliction 
made -her  religious,  and  religion  brought  with  it  consolation, 
and  comfort,  and  joy.  Leonard  became  as  dear  to  her  S£ 
Margaret.  The  sense  of  duty  educed  a  pleasure  from  every 
privation  to  which  she  subjected  herself  for  the  sake  of 
economy;  and,  in  endeavoring  to  fulfil  her  duties  in  that 
state  of  life  to  which  it  had  pleased  God  to  call  her,  she 
was  happier  than  she  had  ever  been  in  her  father's  house, 
and  not  less  so  than  in  her  marriage  state.  Her  happiness 
indeed  was  different  in  kind,  but  it  was  higher  in  degree. 
For  the  sake  of  these  dear  children  she  was  contented  to 
live,  and  eyen  prayed  for  life ;  while,  if  it  had  respected 
herself  only,  death  had  become  to  her  rather  an  object  of 
desire  than  of  dread.  In  this  manner  she  lived  seven  years 
after  the  loss  of  her  husband,  .and  was  then  carried  off  by  an 
acute  disease,  to  the  irreparable  loss  of  the  orphans,  who 
were  thus  orphaned  indeed. 

CHAPTER   II. 

A  LADY  DESCRIBED  WHOSE  SINGLE  LIFE  WAS  NO  BLESSEDNESS 
EITHER  TO  HERSELF  OR  OTHERS.  A  VERACIOUS  EPITAPH  AND 
AN  APPROPRIATE  MONUMENT. 

Beauty !  my  Lord,  —  't  is  the  worst  part  of  woman ! 
A  weak,  poor  thing,  assaulted  every  hour 
By  creeping  minutes  of  defacing  time; 
A  superficies  which  each  breath  of  care 
Blasts  off;  and  every  humorous  stream  of  grief, 
Which  flows  from  forth  these  fountains  of  our  eyes, 
Washeth  away,  as  rain  doth  winters  snow. 

GOFF. 

Miss  TREWBODY  behaved  with  perfect  propriety  upon 
the  new*  of  her  sister's  death.     She  closed  her  front  win- 


174  ROBERT   SOUTHEY. 

dows  for  two  days ;  received  no  visitors  for  a  week ;  was 
much  indisposed,  but  resigned  to  the  will  of  Providence,  in 
reply  to  messages  of  condolence ;  put  her  servants  in  mourn- 
ing, and  sent  for  Margaret,  that  she  might  do  her  duty  to 
her  sister's  child  by  breeding  her  up  under  her  own  eye. 
Poor  Margaret  was  transferred  from  the  stone  floor  of  her 
mother's  cottage  to  the  Turkey  carpet  of  her  aunt's  parlor. 
She  was  too  young  to  comprehend  at  once  the  whole  evil  of 
the  exchange ;  but  she  learned  to  feel  and  understand  if. 
during  years  of  bitter  dependence,  unalleviated  by  any  hope, 
except  that  of  one  day  seeing  Leonard,  the  only  creature  on 
earth  whom  she  remembered  with  affection. 

Seven  years  elapsed,  and  during  all  those  years  Leonard 
was  left  to  pass  his  holidays,  summer  and  winter,  at  the 
grammar-school  where  he  had  been  placed  at  Mrs.  Palmer's 
death :  for  although  the  master  regularly  transmitted  with 
his  half-yearly  bill  the  most  favorable  accounts  of  his  dis- 
position and  general  conduct,  as  well  as  of  his  progress  in 
learning,  no  wish  to  see  the  boy  had  ever  arisen  in  the 
hearts  of  his  nearest  relations ;  and  no  feeling  of  kindness, 
or  sense  of  decent  humanity,  had  ever  induced  either  the 
fox-hunter  Trewman,  or  Melicent  his  sister,  to  invite  him 
for  Midsummer  or  Christmas.  At  length  in  the  seventh 
year  a  letter  announced  that  his  school-education  had  been 

completed,  and  that  he  was  elected  to  a  scholarship  at 

College,  Oxford,  which  scholarship  would  entitle  him  to  a 
fellowship  in  due  course  of  time :  in  the  intervening  years 
some  little  assistance  from  his  liberal  benefactors  would  be 
required ;  and  the  liberality  of  those  kind  friends  would  be 
well  bestowed  upon  a  youth  who  bade  so  fair  to  do  honor 
to  himself,  and  to  reflect  no  disgrace  upon  his  honorable  con- 
nections. The  head  of  the  family  promised  his  part,  with 
an  ungracious  expression  of  satisfaction  at  thinking  that, 
"  thank  God,  there  would  soon  be  an  end  of  these  demands 
upon  him."  Miss  Trewbody  signified  her  assent  in  the 


A   LOVE    STORY.  175 

same  amiable  and  religious  spirit.  However  much  her 
sister  had  disgraced  her  family,  she  replied,  "  Please  God, 
it  should  never  be  said  that  she  refused  to  do  her  duty." 

The  whole  sum  which  these  wealthy  relations  contributed 
was  not  very  heavy,  —  an  annual  ten  pounds  each ;  but 
they  contrived  to  make  their  nephew  feel  the  weight  of 
every  separate  portion.  The  Squire's  half  came  always 
with  a  brief  note,  desiring  that  the  receipt  of  the  enclosed 
sum  might  be  acknowledged  without  delay,  —  not  a  word  j{ 
kindness  or  courtesy  accompanied  it:  and  Miss  Trewbody 
never  failed  to  administer  with  her  remittance  a  few  edify- 
ing remarks  upon  the  folly  of  his  mother  in  marrying 
beneath  herself;  and  the  improper  conduct  of  his  father  in 
connecting  himself  with  a  woman  of  family,  against  the 
consent  of  her  relations  ;  the  consequence  of  which  was, 
that  he  had  left  a  child  dependent  upon  those  relations  for 
support.  Leonard  received  these  pleasant  preparations  of 
charity  only  at  distant  intervals,  when  he  regularly  expected 
them,  with  his  half-yearly  allowance.  But  Margaret  mean- 
time was  dieted  upon  the  food  of  bitterness,  without  one 
circumstance  to  relieve  the  misery  of  her  situation. 

At  the  time  of  which  I  am  now  speaking,  Miss  Trewbody 
was  a  maiden  lady  of  forty-seven,  in  the  highest  state  of 
preservation.  The  whole  business  of  her  life  had  been  to 
take  care  of  a  fine  person,  and  in  this  she  had  succeeded 
admirably.  Her  library  consisted  of  two  books  :  "  Nelson's 
Festivals  and  Fasts  "  was  one,  the  other  was  "  The  Queen's 
Cabinet  Unlocked";  and  there  was  not  a  cosmetic  in  the 
latter  which  she  had  not  faithfully  prepared.  Thus  by 
means,  as  she  believed,  of  distilled  waters  of  various  kinds, 
May-dew  and  buttermilk,  hec  skin  retained  its  beautiful 
texture  still,  and  much  of  its  smoothness ;  and  she  knew  at 
times  how  to  give  it  the  appearance  of  that  brilliancy  which 
it  had  lost.  But  that  was  a  profound  secret.  Miss  Trew- 
body, remembering  the  example  of  Jezebel,  always  felt 


176  BOBERT   SOUTHEY. 

conscious  that  she  was  committing  a  sin  when  she  took  the 
rouge-box  in  her  hand,  and  generally  ejaculated  m  a  low 
voice,  the  Lord  forgive  me !  when  she  laid  it  down :  but, 
looking  in  the  glass  at  the  same  time,  she  indulged  a  hope 
that  the  nature  of  the  temptation  might  be  considered  as 
an  excuse  for  the  transgression.  Her  other  great  business 
was  to  observe  with  the  utmost  precision  all  the  punctilios 
of  her  situation  in  life  ;  and  the  time  which  was  not  devoted 
to  one  or  other  of  these  worthy  occupations,  was  employed 
in  scolding  her  servants,  and  tormenting  her  niece.  This 
employment,  for  it  was  so  habitual  that  it  deserved  that 
name,  agreed  excellently  with  her  constitution.  She  was 
troubled  with  no  acrid  humors,  no  fits  of  bile,  no  diseases 
of  the  spleen,  no  vapors  or  hysterics.  The  morbid  matter 
was  all  collected  in  her  temper,  and  found  a  regular  vent  at 
her  tongue.  This  kept  the  lungs  in  vigorous  health  ;  nay, 
it  even  seemed  to  supply  the  place  of  wholesome  exercise, 
and  to  stimulate  the  system  like  a  perpetual  blister,  with 
this  peculiar  advantage,  that  instead  of  an  inconvenience  it 
ttas  a  pleasure  to  herself,  and  all  the  annoyance  was  to  her 
dependants. 

Miss  Trewbody  lies  buried  in  the  Cathedral  at  Salisbury, 
where  a  monument  was  erected  to  her  memory  worthy  of 
remembrance  itself  for  its  appropriate  inscription  and  ac- 
companiments. The  epitaph  recorded  her  as  a  woman 
eminently  pious,  virtuous,  and  charitable,  who  lived  univer- 
sally respected,  and  died  sincerely  lamented,  by  all  who  had 
the  happiness  of  knowing  her.  This  inscription  was  upon 
a  marble  shield  supported  by  two  Cupids,  who  bent  their 
heads  over  the  edge,  with  marble  tears  larger  than  gray 
pease,  and  something  of  the  .same  color,  upon  their  cheeks. 
These  were  the  only  tears  which  her  death  occasioned,  and 
the  only  Cupids  with  whom  she  had  ever  any  concern. 


A  LOVE   STORY.  177 


CHAPTER   III. 

A  SCE^E  WHICH  WILL  PUT  SO3IE  OF  THOSE  READERS  WHO  HAVB 
BEEN  MOST  IMPATIENT  WITH  THE  AUTHOR,  IN  THE  BEST  HUMOB 
WITH  HIM. 

There  is  no  argument  of  more  antiqnity  and  elegancy  than  is  the  mat- 
ter of  Love  ;  for  it  seems  to  be  as  old  as  the  world,  and  to  bear  date  from 
the  first  time  that  man  and  woman  was:  therefore  in  this,  as  in  the  finest 
metal,  the  freshest  wits  have  in  all  ages  shown  their  best  workmanship. 

EGBERT  WILMOT. 


Leonard  had  resided  three  years  at  Oxford,  one 
of  his  college-friends  invited  him  to  pass  the  long  vacation 
at  his  father's  house,  which  happened  to  be  within  an  easy 
ride  of  Salisbury.  One  morning,  therefore,  he  rode  to  that 
city,  rung  at  Miss  Trewbody's  door,  and  having  sent  in  his 
name,  was  admitted  into  the  parlor,  where  there  was  no  one 
to  receive  him.  while  Miss  Trewbody  adjusted  her  head- 
dress at  the  toilette,  before  she  made  her  appearance.  Her 
feelings  while  she  was  thus  employed  were  not  of  the 
pleasantest  kind  toward  this  unexpected  guest  ;  and  she  was 
prepared  to  accost  him  with  a  reproof  for  his  extravagance 
in  undertaking  so  long  a  journey,  and  with  some  mortifying 
questions  concerning  the  business  which  brought  him  there. 
But  this  amiable  intention  was  put  to  flight,  when  Leonard, 
as  soon  as  she  entered  the  room,  informed  her,  that  having 
accepted  an  invitation  into  that  neighborhood,  from  his  friend 
and  fellow-collegian,  the  son  of  Sir  Lambert  Bowles,  he'had 
taken  the  earliest  opportunity  of  coming  to  pay  his  respects 
to  her,  and  acknowledging  his  obligations,  as  bound  alike 
by  duty  and  inclination.  The  name  of  Sir  Lambert  Bowle3 
acted  upon  Miss  Trewbody  like  a  charm  ;  and  its  mollify- 
ing effect  was  not  a  little  aided  by  the  tone  of  her  nephew's 
address,  and  the  sight  of  a  fine  youth  in  the  first  bloom  of 
manhood,  whose  appearance  and  manners  were  such,  that 
8»  L 


178  ROBERT   SOUTHEY. 

she  could  not  be  surprised  at  the  introduction  he  had  ob- 
tained into  one  of  the  first  families  in  the  county.  The 
scowl,  therefore,  which  she  brought  into  the  room  upon  her 
brow,  passed  instantly  away,  and  was  succeeded  by  so 
gracious  an  aspect,  that  Leonard,  if  he  had  not  divined  the 
cause,  might  have  mistaken  this  gleam  of  sunshine  for  fair 
weather. 

A  cause  which  Miss  Trewbody  could  not  possibly  suspect 
had  rendered  her  nephew's  address  thus  conciliatory.  Had 
he  expected  to  see  no  other  person  in  that  house,  the  visit 
would  have  been  performed  as  an  irksome  obligation,  and 
iris  manner  would  have  appeared  as  cold  and  formal  as  the 
reception  which  he  anticipated.  But  Leonard  had  not  for- 
gotten the  playmate  and  companion  with  whom  the  happy 
years  of  his  childhood  had  been  passed.  Young  as  he  was 
at  their  separation,  his  character  had  taken  its  stamp  dur- 
ing those  peaceful  years,  and  the  impression  which  it  then 
received  was  indelible.  Hitherto  hope  had  never  been  to 
him  so  delightful  as  memory.  His  thoughts  wandered  back 
into  the  past  more  frequently  than  they  took  flight  into  the 
future ;  and  the  favorite  form  which  his  imagination  called 
up  was  that  of  the  sweet  child,  who  in  winter  partook  his 
bench  in  the  chimney-corner,  and  in  summer  sat  with  him 
in  the  porch,  and  strung  the  fallen  blossoms  of  jessamine 
upon  stalks  of  grass.  The  snowdrop  and  the  crocus  re- 
minded him  of  their  little  garden,  the  primrose  of  their 
sunny  orchard-bank,  and  the  bluebells  and  the  cowslip  of 
the  fields,  wherein  they  were  allowed  to  run  wild,  and 
gather  them  in  the  merry  month  of  May.  Such  as  she 
then  was  he  saw  her  frequently  in  sleep,  with  her  blue 
eyes,  and  rosy  cheeks,  and  flaxen  curls:  and  in  his  day- 
dreams he  sometimes  pictured  her  to  himself  such  as  he 
supposed  she  now  might  be,  and  dressed  up  the  image  with 
all  the  magic  of  ideal  beauty.  His  heart,  therefore,  was  at 
his  lips  when  he  inquired  for  his  cousin.  It  was  not  with- 


A   LOVE   STORY.  179 

out  something  like  fear,  and  an  apprehension  of  disappoint- 
ment, that  he  awaited  her  appearance  ;  and  he  was  secretly 
condemning  himself  for  the  romantic  folly  which  he  had 
encouraged,  when  the  door  opened,  and  a  creature  came  in, 
—  less  radiant,  indeed,  but  more  winning  than  his  fancy 
had  created,  for  the  loveliness  of  earth  and  reality  waa 
about  her. 

'•  Margaret,"  said  Miss  Trewbody,  "  do  you  remember 
your  cousin  Leonard?" 

Before  she  could  answer,  Leonard  had  taken  her  hand. 
"  'T  is  a  long  while,  Margaret,  since  we  parted !  —  ten 
years!  —  But  I  have  not  forgotten  the  parting — nor  the 
blessed  days  of  our  childhood." 

She  stood  trembling  like  an  aspen  leaf,  and  looked  wist- 
fully in  his  face  for  a  moment,  then  hung  down  her  head, 
without  power  to  utter  a  word  in  reply.  But  he  felt  her 
tears  fall  fast  upon  his  hand,  and  felt  also  that  she  returned 
its  pressure. 

Leonard  had  some  difficulty  to  command  himself,  so  as  to 
bear  a  part  in  conversation  with  his  aunt,  and  keep  his  eyes 
and  his  thoughts  from  wandering.  He  accepted,  however, 
her  invitation  to  stay  and  dine  with  her  with  undissembled 
satisfaction,  and  the  pleasure  was  not  a  little  heightened 
when  she  left  the  room  to  give  some  necessary  orders  in 
consequence.  Margaret  still  sate  trembling  and  in  silence. 
He  took  her  hand,  pressed  »it  to  his  lips,  and  said  in  a  low 
earnest  voice,  "  Dear,  dear  Margaret ! "  She  raised  her 
eyes,  and  fixing  them  upon  him  with  one  of  those  looks, 
the  perfect  remembrance  of  which  can  never  be  effaced  from 
the  heart  to  which  they  have  been  addressed,  replied  in  a 
lower  but  not  less  earnest  tone,  "  Dear  Leonard !  "  and  from 
that  moment  their  lot  was  sealed  for  time  and  for  eternity. 


180  ROBERT   SOUTHEY. 

CHAPTER   IV. 

MORE    CONCERNING   LOVE    AND   THE   DREAM    OP   LIFE. 

Happy  the  bonds  that  hold  ye; 
Sure  they  be  sweeter  far  than  liberty, 
There  is  no  blessedness  but  in  such  bondage ; 
Happy  that  happy  chain;  such  links  are  heavei  ly. 

BEAUMONT  ANE  FLETCHER. 

I  WILL  not  describe  the  subsequent  interviews  between 
Leonard  and  his  cousin,  short  and  broken,  but  precious  as 
they  were;  nor  that  parting  one,  in  which  hands  were 
plighted  with  the  sure  and  certain  knowledge  that  hearts 
had  been  interchanged.  Remembrance  will  enable  some  of 
my  readers  to  portray  the  scene,  and  then  perhaps  a  sigh 
may  be  heaved  for  the  days  that  are  gone  :  Hope  will  pic- 
ture it  to  others  —  and  with  them  the  sigh  will  be  for  the 
days  that  are  to  come. 

There  was  not  that  indefinite  deferment  of  hope  in  this 
case  at  which  the  heart  sickens.  Leonard  had  been  bred 
up  in  poverty  from  his  childhood  ;  a  parsimonious  allowance, 
grudgingly  bestowed,  had  contributed  to  keep  him  frugal  at 
college,  by  calling  forth  a  pardonable  if  not  a  commendable 
sense  of  pride  in  aid  of  a  worthier  principle.  He  knew 
that  he  could  rely  upon  himself  for  frugality,  industry,  and 
a  cheerful  as  well  as  a  contenteti  mind.  He  had  seen  the 
miserable  state  of  bondage  in  which  Margaret  existed  with 
her  aunt,  and  his  resolution  was  made  to  deliver  her  from 
tha :  bondage  as  soon  as  he  could  obtain  the  smallest  bene- 
fice on  which  it  was  possible  for  them  to  subsist.  They 
agreed  to  live  rigorously  within  their  means,  however  poor, 
and  put  their  trust  in  Providence.  They  could  not  be  de- 
ceived in  each  other,  for  they  had  grown  up  together ;  and 
they  knew  that  they  were  not  deceived  in  themselves. 
Their  love  had  the  freshness  of  youth,  but  prudence  and 


A   LOVE   STORY.  181 

forethought  were  not  wanting;  the  resolution  which  they 
had  taken  brought  with  it  peace  of  mind,  and  no  misgiving 
was  felt  in  either  heart  when  they  prayed  for  a  blessing 
upon  their  purpose.  In  reality  it  had  already  brought  a 
blessing  with  it;  and  this  they  felt;  for  love,  when  it  de- 
serves that  n^ime,  produces  in  us  what  may  be  called  a 
regeneration  of  its  own  —  a  second  birth  —  dimly,  but  yet 
in  some  degree,  resembling  that  which  is  effected  by  Divine 
Love  when  its  redeeming  work  is  accomplished  in  the  soul. 

Leonard  returned  to  Oxford  happier  than  all  this  world's 
wealth  or  this  world's  honors  could  have  made  him.  He 
had  now  a  definite  and  attainable  hope  —  an  object  in  life 
which  gave  to  life .  itself  a  value.  For  Margaret,  the  world 
no  longer  seemed  to  her  like  the  same  earth  which  she  had 
till  then  inhabited.  Hitherto  she  had  felt  herself  a  forlorn 
and  solitary  creature,  without  a  friend;  and  the  sweet 
sounds  and  pleasant  objects  of  nature,  had  imparted  as  little 
cheerfulness  to  her  as  to  the  debtor  who  sees  green  fields  in 
sunshine  from  his  prison,  and  hears  the  lark  singing  at  lib- 
erty. Her  heart  was  open  now  to  all  the  exhilarating  and 
all  the  softening  influences  of  birds,  fields,  flowers,  vernal 
suns,  and  melodious  streams.  She  was  subject  to  the  same 
daily  and  hourly  exercise  of  meekness,  patience,  and  hu- 
mility; but  the  trial  was  no  longer  painful;  with  love  in 
her  heart,  and  hope  and  sunshine  in  her  prospect,  she  found 
even  a  pleasure  in  contrasting  her  present  condition  with 
that  which  was  in  store  for  her. 

In  these  our  days  every  young  lady  holds  the  pen  of  a 
ready  writer,  and  words  flow  from  it  as  fast  as  it  can  indent 
its  zigzag  lines,  according  to  the  reformed  system  of  writing, 
—  which  said  system  improves  handwritings  by  making 
them  all  alike  and  all  illegible.  At  that  time  women  wrote 
better  and  spelt  worse ;  but  letter-writing  was  not  one  of 
their  accomplishments.  It  had  not  yet  become  one  of  the 
general  pleasures  and  luxuries  of  life,  —  perhaps  the  greatest 


182  ROBERT   SOUTHEY. 

gratification  which  the  progress  of  civilization  has  given 
us.  There  was  then  no  mail-coach  to  waft  a  sigh  across  the 
country  at  the  rate  of  eight  miles  an  hour.  Letters  came 
slowly  and  with  long  intervals  between ;  but  when  they 
came,  the  happiness  which  they  imparted  to  Leonard  and 
Margaret  lasted  during  the  interval,  however  long.  To 
Leonard  it  was  as  an  exhilarant  and  a  cordial  which  rejoiced 
and  strengthened  him.  He  trod  the  earth  with  a  lighter  and 
more  elated  movement  on  the  day  when  he  received  a  letter 
from  Margaret,  as  if  he  felt  himself  invested  with  an  impor- 
tance which  he  had  never  possessed  till  the  happiness  of  an- 
other human  being  was  inseparably  associated  with  his  own. 

So  proud  a  thing  it  was  for  him  to  wear 

Love's  golden  chain, 
With  which  it  is  best  freedom  to  be  bound.* 

Happy,  indeed,  if  there  be  happiness  on  earth,  as  that 
same  sweet  poet  says,  is  he 

Who  love  enjoys,  and  placed  hath  his  mind 
Where  fairest  virtues  fairest  beauties  grace, 

Then  in  himself  such  store  of  worth  doth  find 
That  he  deserves  to  find  so  good  a  place.* 

This  was  Leonard's  case ;  and  when  he  kissed  the  paper 
which  her  hand  had  pressed,  it  was  with  a  consciousness  of 
the  strength  and  sincerity  of  his  affection,  which  at  once  re- 
joiced and  fortified  his  heart.  To  Margaret  his  letters  were 
like  summer  dew  upon  the  herb  that  thirsts  for  such  refresh- 
ment. Whenever  they  arrived,  a  headache  became  the 
cause  or  pretext  for  retiring  earlier  than  usual  to  her  cham- 
ber, that  she  might  weep  and  dream  over  the  precious  lines. 

True  gentle  love  is  like  the  summer  dew, 

Which  falls  around  when  all  is  still  and  hush ; 

And  falls  unseen  until  its  bright 'drops  strew 

With  odors,  herb  and  flower,  and  bank  and  bush. 

*  Drummond. 


A    LOVE    STORY.  183 

O  love !  —  when  womanhood  is  in  the  flush, 
And  man's  a  young  and  an  unspotted  thing, 

His  first-breathed  word,  and  her  half-conscious  hlusb, 
Are  fair  as  light  in  heaven,  or  flowers  in  spring* 


CHAPTER    V. 

AS  EARLY  BEREAVEMENT.   TRUE  LOVE  ITS  OWN  COMFORTER.   A 
LONELY  FATHER  AND  AN  ONLY  CHILD. 

Read  ye  that  run  the  awful  truth, 

With  which  I  charge  my  page; 
A  worm  is  in  the  bud  of  youth, 

And  at  the  root  of  age. 

COWPER. 

LEONARD  was  not  more  than  eight-and-twenty  when  he 
obtained  a  living,  a  few  miles  from  Doncaster.  He  took 
his  bride  with  him  to  the  vicarage.  The  house  was  as  hum- 
ble as  the  benefice,  which  was  worth  less  than  £  50  a  year ; 
but  it  was  soon  made  the  neatest  cottage  in  the  country 
round,  and  upon  a  happier  d\*elling  the  sun  never  shone. 
A  few  acres  of  good  glebe  were  attached  to  it ;  and  the  gar- 
den was  large  enough  to  afford  healthful  and  pleasurable 
employment  to  its  owners.  The  course  of  true  love  never 
ran  more  smoothly ;  but  its  course  was  short. 

O  how  this  spring  of  love  resembleth 

The  uncertain  glory  of  an  April  day, 
Which  now  shows  all  the  beauty  of  the  sun, 

And  by  and  by  a  cloud  takes  all  away  !  t 

Little  more  than  five  years  from  the  time  of  their  mar- 
riage had  elapsed,  before  a  head-stone  in  the  adjacent 
churchyard  told  where  the  remains  of  Margaret  Bacon  had 
been  deposited,  in  the  thirtieth  year  of  her  age. 

*  Allan  Cunningham.  t  Shakespeare. 


184  EGBERT   SOUTHEY. 

i 
When  the  stupor  and  the  agony  of  that  bereavement  had 

passed  away,  the  very  intensity  of  Leonard's  affection  be- 
came a  source  of  consolation.  Margaret  had  been  to  him  a 
purely  ideal  object  during  the  years  of  his  youth ;  death 
had  again  rendered  her  such.  Imagination  had  beautified 
and  idolized  her  then ;  faith  sanctified  and  glorified  her  now. 
She  had  been  to  him  on  earth  all  that  he  had  fancied,  all 
that  he  had  hoped,  all  that  he  had  desired.  She  would 
again  be  so  in  heaven.  And  this  second  union  nothing 
could  impede,  nothing  could  interrupt,  nothing  could  dis- 
solve. He  had  only  to  keep  himself  worthy  of  it  by  cher- 
ishing her  memory,  hallowing  his  heart  to  it  while  he  per- 
formed a  parent's  duty  to  their  child ;  and  so  doing  to  await 
his  own  summons,  which  must  one  day  come,  which  every 
day  was  brought  nearer,  and  which  any  day  might  bring. 

'T  is  the  only  discipline  we  are  born  for ; 
All  studies  else  are  but  as  circular  lines, 
And  death  the  centre  where  they  must  all  meet.* 

The  same  feeling  which  from  his  childhood  had  refined 
Leonard's  heart,  keeping  it*  pure  and  undefiled,  had  also 
corroborated  the  natural  strength  of  his  chafacter,  and  made 
him  firm  of  purpose.  It  was  a  saying  of  Bishop  Andrewes, 
that  "  good  husbandry  is  good  divinity  "  ;  "  the  truth  where- 
of," says  Fuller,  "  no  wise  man  will  deny."  Frugality  he 
had  always  practised  as  a  needful  virtue,  and  found  that,  in 
an  especial  manner,  it  brings  with  it  its  own  reward.  He 
now  resolved  upon  scrupulously  setting  apart  a  fourth  of  his 
small  income  to  make  a  provision  for  his  child,  in  case  of 
her  surviving  him,  as  in  the  natural  course  of  things  might 
be  expected.  If  she  should  be  removed  before  him  —  for 
this  was  an  event  the  possibility  of  which  he  always  bore  in 
mind  —  he  had  resolved,  that  whatever  should  have  been 
accumulated  with  this  intent,  should  be  disposed  of  to  some 

*  Massinger. 


A  LOVE   STORY.  185 

other  pious  purpose,  —  for  such,  within  the  limits  to  which 
his  poor  means  extended,  he  properly  considered  this. 
And  having  entered  on  this  prudential  course  with  a  calm 
reliance  upon  Providence,  in  case  his  hour  should  come  be- 
fore that  purpose  could  be  accomplished,  he  was  without 
any  earthly  hope  or  fear,  —  those  alone  excepted  from 
which  no  parent  can  be  free. 

The  child  had  been  christened  Deborah,  after  her  maternal 
grandmother,  for  whom  Leonard  ever  gratefully  retained  a 
most  affectionate  and  reverential  remembrance.  She  was 
a  healthy,  happy  creature  in  body  and  in  mind ;  at  first 

one  of  those  little  prating  girls 
Of  whom  fond  parents  tell  such  tedious  stories  ;  * 

afterwards,  as  she  grew  up,  a  favorite  with  the  village 
schoolmistress,  and  with  the  whole  parish ;  docile,  good- 
natured,  lively  and  yet  considerate,  always  gay  as  a  lark  and 
busy  as  a  bee.  One  of  the  pensive  pleasures  in  which 
Leonard  indulged  was  to  gaze  on  her  unperceived,  and 
trace  the  likeness  to  her  mother. 

O  Christ ! 

How  that  which  was  the  life's  life  of  our  being, 
Can  pass  away,  and  we  recall  it  thus  !  t 

That  resemblance  which  was  strong  in  childhood  lessened 
as  the  child  grew  up ;  for  Margaret's  countenance  had  ac- 
quired a  cast  of  meek  melancholy  during  those  years  in 
which  the  bread  of  bitterness  had  been  her  portion ;  and, 
when  hope  came  to  her,  it  was  that  "  hope  deferred,'  which 
takes  from  the  cheek  its  bloom,  even  when  the  heart,  instead 
of  being  made  sick,  is  sustained  by  it.  But  no  unhappy 
circumstances  depressed  the  constitutional  buoyancy  of  her 
daughter's  spirits.  Deborah  brought  into  the  world  the 

*  Dryden.  t  Isaac  Comnenus. 


1  7 '  F  .'  F  :~  r.  .      >  I  ttH  -  V 

easy  temper  and  a 

:.       '     '    "-.  -    *•"  •  -.  ~v. 

... 

in  "    :  -j    :    :  r  > .::  -./:  --          '•"'•} 

ce,  with  the  sort  of 

-        .:.-.••• 

i  WBBC&  nan  gnun  *  ^ercoc  •••  aMHM-iHre 
to  her  mother  s,  he  wished  to  persuade  himseif,  that  as  the 
cf  Ac  one  seemed  to  narc  hern  thus  pre- 

km      »•       •»   ^^  •«« .  -    £_     m.—    i * 
:- »".:-:    .      ..   \    '    .      .  -.  .- 

rf_.  -"--"""- 

ocneis  mi  a  goon  OKI  •go,  WKIXT  m^ta  «   >  au>  m 

rcomrse  should  ripen  her  for^ 


CHAPTER    TI 


of  Leonard 

.  -"    -  "-    -      ^.     -  -  -  "- 

:    .    T    ? 
labored  with  such 

upon  the  death  of  CTery 


another  far  the  thing  from 

-  ^  •  ^  •"•"/.*-  r  ~  ^  *  ,  ^.  !\  * 
change.  An  abolitioa  almost  as  complete  with  regard  to 
the  pezson  had  takes  place  in  the  present  instance.  The 

to  him  by  all  his  dearest 
He  had  been  known  bv  it  on 


A  LOVE   STORY.  187 

his  mother's  knees,  and  in  the  humble  cottage  of  that  aunt 
who  had  been  to  him  a  second  mother ;  and  by  the  wife  of 
his  bosom,  his  first,  last,  and  only  love.  Margaret  had 
never  spoken  to  him,  never  thought  of  him,  by  any  other 
name.  From  the  hour  of  her  death,  no  human  voice  ever 
addressed  him  by  it  again.  He  never  heard  himself  so 
called,  except  in  dreams.  It  existed  only  in  the  dead  let- 
ter ;  he  signed  it  mechanically  in  the  course  of  business, 
but  it  had  ceased  to  be  a  living  name. 

Men  willingly  prefix  a  handle  to  their  names,  and  tack 
on  to  them  any  two  or  more  honorary  letters  of  the  alphabe: 
as  a  tail ;  they  drop  their  surnames  for  a  dignity,  and 
change  them  for  an  estate  or  a  title.  They  are  pleased 
to  be  Doctor'd  and  Professor'd ;  to  be  Captain'd,  Major'd, 
Colouel'd,  General' d,  or  Admiral'd;  to  be  Sir  John'd,  my- 
Lorded,  or  your-Grace'd.  "  You  and  I,"  says  Cranmer  in 
his  Answer  to  Gardiner's  book  upon  Transubstantiation  — 
"you  and  I  were  delivered  from  our  surnames  when  we 
were  consecrated  Bishops  ;  sithence  which  time  we  have  so 
commonly  been  used  of  all  men  to  be  called  Bishops,  you  of 
Winchester,  and  I  of  Canterbury,  that  the  most  part  of  the 
people  know  not  that  your  name  is  Gardiner,  and  mine 
Cranmer.  And  I  pray  God,  that  we  being  called  to  the 
name  of  Lords,  have  not  forgotten  our  own  baser  estates, 
that  once  we  were  simple  squires ! "  —  But  the  emotion  with 
which  the  most  successful  suitor  of  Fortune  hears  himself 
first  addressed  by  a  new  and  honorable  title,  conferred  upon 
him  for  his  public  deserts,  touches  his  heart  less  (if  that 
heart  be  sound  at  the  core),  than  when  after  long  absence, 
some  one  who  is  privileged  so  to  use  it,  accosts  him  by  his 
Christian  name,  —  that  household  name  which  he  has  never 
heard  but  from  his  nearest  relations,  and  his  old  Familiar 
friends.  By  this  it  is  that  we  are  known  to  all  around  us 
in  childhood  ;  it  is  used  only  by  our  parents  and  our  nearest 
kin  when  that  stage  is  passed ;  and,  as  they  drop  off,  it  dies 
as  to  its  oral  uses  with  them. 


188  ROBERT    SOUTHEY. 

It  is  because  we  are  remembered  more  naturally  in  our 
family  and  paternal  circles  by  our  baptismal  than  our  he- 
reditary names,  and  remember  ourselves  more  naturally  by 
them,  that  the  Roman  Catholic,  renouncing,  upon  a  princi- 
ple of  perverted  piety,  all  natural  ties  when  he  enters  a 
convent,  and  voluntarily  dies  to  the  world,  assumes  a  new 
one.  This  is  one  manifestation  of  that  intense  selfishness 
which  the  law  of  monastic  life  inculcates,  and  affects  to 
sanctify.  Alas,  there  need  no  motives  of  erroneous  relig- 
ion to  wean  us  from  the  ties  of  blood  and  of  affection  !  They 
are  weakened  and  dissolved  by  fatal  circumstances,  and  the 
ways  of  the  world,  too  frequently  and  too  soon. 

"  Our  men  of  rank,"  said  my  friend  one  day  when  he  was 
speaking  upon  this  subject,  "  are  not  the  only  persons  who 
go  by  different  appellations  in  different  parts  of  their  lives. 
We  all  moult  our  names  in  the  natural  course  of  life.  I 
was  Dan  in  my  father's  house,  and  should  still  be  so  with 
my  uncle  William  and  Mr.  Guy,  if  they  were  still  living. 
Upon  my  removal  to  Doncaster,  my  master  and  mistress 
called  me  Daniel,  and  my  acquaintance  Dove.  In  Holland 
I  was  Mynheer  Duif.  Now  I  am  the  Doctor,  and  not 
among  my  patients  only ;  friends,  acquaintance,  and  stran- 
gers, address  me  by  this  appellation  ;  even  my  wife  calls 
me  by  no  other  name;  and  I  shall  never  be  anything  but 
the  Doctor  again,  —  till  I  am  registered  at  my  burial  by  the 
Bame  name  as  at  my  christening." 

CHAPTER    VII. 

THE    DOCTOB  IS    INTRODUCED,   BY   THE  SMALL-POX,  TO   HIS  FUTURB 
WIFE. 

Long-waiting  love  doth  entrance  find 
Into  the  slow-believing  mind. 

SYDNEY  GODOLPHIN. 

WHEN  Deborah  was  about  nineteen,  the  small-pox  broke 
out  in  Doncaster,  and  soon  spread  over  the  surrounding 


A   LOVE  STORY.  189 

country,  occasioning  everywhere  a  great  mortality.  At 
that  time  inoculation  had  very  rarely  been  practised  in 
the  provinces ;  and  the  prejudice  against  it  was  so  strong, 
that  Mr.  Bacon,  though  convinced  in  his  own  mind  that  the 
practice  was  not  only  lawful,  but  advisable,  refrained  from 
having  his  daughter  inoculated  till  the  disease  appeared  in 
his  own  parish.  He  had  been  induced  to  defer  it  during 
her  childhood,  partly  because  he  was  unwilling  to  offend  the 
prejudices  of  his  parishioners,  which  he  hoped  to  overcome 
by  persuasion  and  reasoning  when  time  and  opportunity 
might  favor ;  still  more,  because  he  thought  it  unjustifiable 
to  introduce  such  a  disease  into  his  own  house,  with  immi- 
nent risk  of  communicating  it  to  others,  which  were  other- 
wise in  no  danger,  in  which  the  same  preparations  would 
not  be  made,  and  where,  consequently,  the  danger  would  be 
greater.  But  when  the  malady  had  shown  itself  in  the  par- 
ish, then  he  felt  that  his  duty  as  a  parent  required  him  to 
take  the  best  apparent  means  for  the  preservation  of  his 
child ;  and  that  as  a  pastor  also  it  became  him  now  in  his 
own  family  to  set  an  example  to  his  parishioners. 

Deborah,  who  had  the  most  perfect  reliance  upon  her 
father's  judgment,  and  lived  in  entire  accordance  with  his 
will  in  all  things,  readily  consented ;  and  seemed  to  regard 
the  beneficial  consequences  of  the  experiment  to  others  with 
hope,  rather  than  to  look  with  apprehension  to  it  for  herself. 
Mr  Bacon  therefore  went  to  Doncaster  and  called  upon 
Mr.  Dove.  "  I  do  not,"  said  he,  "  ask  whether  you  would 
advise  me  to  have  my  daughter  inoculated ;  where  so  great 
a  risk  is  to  be  incurred,  in  the  case  of  an  only  child,  you 
might  hesitate  to  advise  it.  But  if  you  see  nothing  in  her 
present  state  of  health,  or  in  her  constitutional  tendencies, 
which  would  render  it  more  than  ordinarily  dangerous,  it  is 
her  own  wish  and  mine,  after  due  consideration  on  my  part, 
that  she  should  be  committed  to  your  care,  —  putting  our 
trust  in  Providence." 


190  ROBERT    SOUTHEY. 

Hitherto  there  had  been  no  acquaintance  between  Mr. 
Bacon  and  the  Doctor,  farther  than  that  they  knew  each 
other  by  sight  and  by  good  report.  This  circumstance  led 
to  a  growing  intimacy.  During  the  course  of  his  attend- 
ance, the  Doctor  fell  in  friendship  with  the  father,  and  the 
father  with  him. 

"  Did  he  fall  in  love  with  his  patient? " 

"  No,  ladies." 

You  have  already  heard  that  he  once  fell  in  love,  and 
how  it  happened.  And  you  have  also  been  informed  that 
he  caught  love  once,  though  I  have  not  told  you  how, 
because  it  would  have  led  me  into  too  melancholy  a  tale. 
In  this  case  he  neither  fell  in  love,  nor  caught  it,  nor  ran 
into  it,  nor  walked  into  it ;  nor  was  he  overtaken  in  it,  as  a 
boon  companion  in  liquor,  or  a  runaway  in  his  flight.  Yet 
there  was  love  between  the  parties  at  last,  and  it  was  love  for 
love,  to  the  heart's  content  of  both.  How  this  came  to  pass 
will  be  related  at  the  proper  time  and  in  the  proper  place. 

For  here  let  me  set  before  the  judicious  reader  certain 
pertinent  remarks  by  the  pious  and  well-known  author  of  a 
popular  treatise  upon  the  Right  Use  of  Reason, —  a  trea- 
tise which  has  been  much  read  to  little  purpose.  That  au- 
thor observes,  that  "  those  writers  and  speakers  whose  chief 
business  is  to  amuse  or  delight,  to  allure,  terrify,  or  persuade 
mankind,  do  not  confine  themselves  to  any  natural  order,  but 
in  a  cryptical  or  hidden  method,  adapt  everything  to  their 
designed  ends.  Sometimes  they  omit  those  things  which 
might  injure  their  design,  or  grow  tedious  to  their  hearers, 
though  they  seem  to  have  a  necessary  relation  to  the  point  in 
hand ;  sometimes  they  add  those  things  which  have  no  great 
reference  to  the  subject,  but  are  suited  to  allure  or  refresh 
the  mind  and  the  ear.  They  dilate  sometimes,  and  flourish 
long  upon  little  incidents,  and  they  skip  over,  and  but 
lightly  touch  the  dryer  part  of  the  theme.  They  omit  tilings 
essential  which  are  not  beautiful ;  they  insert  little  needless 


A   LOVE   STORY.  191 

chcumstances,  and  beautiful  digressions:  they  invert  times 
and  actions,  in  order  to  place  everything  in  the  most  affect- 
ing light;  —  they  place  the  first  things  last,  and  the  last 
things  first  with  wondrous  art ;  and  yet  so  manage  it  as  tc 
conceal  their  artifice,  and  lead  the  senses  and  passions  of 
their  hearers  into  a§  pleasing  and  powerful  captivity." 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

MB.    BACON  8    PARSONAGE.       CHRISTIAN     RESIGNATION.       TIME     AND 
CHANGE.       WILKIE    AND   THE    MONK    IN    THE    ESCURIAL. 

The  idea  of  her  life  shall  sweetly  creep 

Into  his  study  of  imagination; 

And  every  lovely  organ  of  her  life 

Shall  come  apparelled  in  more  precious  habit, 

More  moving  delicate,  and  full  of  life, 

Into  the  eye  and  prospect  of  his  soul, 

Than  when  she  lived  indeed. 

SHAKESPEARE. 

IN  a  Scotch  village  the  Manse  is  sometimes  the  only  good 
house,  and  generally  it  is  the  best ;  almost,  indeed,  what  in 
old  times  the  Mansion  used  to  be  in  an  English  one.  In  Mr. 
Bacon's  parish,  the  vicarage,  though  humble  as  the  benefice 
itself,  was  the  neatest.  The  cottage  in  which  he  and  Marga- 
ret passed  their  childhood,  had  been  remarkable  for  that  com- 
fort which  is  the  result  and  the  reward  of  order  and  neatness : 
and  when  the  reunion  which  blessed  them  both  rendered  the 
remembrance  of  those  years  delightful,  they  returned  in 
this  respect  to  the  way  in  which  they  had  been  trained  up, 
practised  the  economy  which  they  had  learned  there,  and 
loved  to  think  how  entirely  their  course  of  life,  in  all  its  cir- 
cumstances, would  be  after  the  heart  of  that  person,  if  she 
could  behold  it,  whose  memory  they  both  with  equal  affec- 
tion cherished.  After  his  bereavement,  it  was  one  of  the 
widower's  pensive  pleasures  to  keep  everything  in  the 


192  ROBERT    SOUTHEY. 

state  us  when  Margaret  was  living.  Nothing  was  neglected 
that  she  used  to  do,  or  that  she  would  have  done.  The 
flowers  were  tended  as  carefully  as  if  she  were  still  to  enjoy 
their  fragrance  and  their  beauty ;  and  the  birds  who  came 
in  winter  for  their  crumbs,  were  fed  as  duly  for  her  sake,  as 
they  had  formerly  been  by  her  hands.  * 

There  was  no  superstition  in  this,  nor  weakness.  Im- 
moderate grief,  if  it  does  not  exhaust  itself  by  indulgence, 
easily  assumes  the  one  character  or  the  other,  or  takes  a 
type  of  insanity.  But  he  had  looked  for  consolation,  where, 
when  sincerely  sought,  it  is  always  to  be  found  ;  and  he  had 
experienced  that  religion  effects  in  a  true  believer  all  that 
philosophy  professes,  and  more  than  all  that  mere  philos- 
ophy can  perform.  The  wounds  which  stoicism  would  cau- 
terize, religion  heals. 

There  is  a  resignation  with  which,  it  may  be  feared, 
most  of  us  deceive  ourselves.  To  bear  what  must  be 
borne,  and  submit  to  what  cannot  be  resisted,  is  no  more 
than  what  the  unregenerate  heart  is  taught  by  the  instinct 
of  animal  nature.  But  to  acquiesce  in  the  afflictive  dispen- 
sations of  Providence,  —  to  make  one's  own  will  conform  in 
all  things  to  that  of  our  Heavenly  Father,  —  to  say  to  him 
in  the  sincerity  of  faith,  when  we  drink  of  the  bitter  cup, 
"  Thy  will  be  done  ! "  —  to  bless  the  name  of  the  Lord  as 
much  from  the  heart  when  he  takes  away  as  when  he  gives, 
and  with  a  depth  of  feeling,  of  which,  perhaps,  none  but  the 
afflicted  heart  is  capable,  —  this  is  the  resignation  which  re- 
ligion teaches,  this  the  sacrifice  which  it  requires.*  This 
sacrifice  Leonard  had  made,  and  he  felt  that  it  was  accepted. 

*  This  passage  was  written  when  Southey  was  bowing  his  head 
under  the  sorest  and  saddest  of  his  many  troubles.  He  thus  alludes 
to  it  in  a  letter  to  J.  W.  Warter,  dated  October  5,  1834. 

"  On  the  next  leaf  is  the  passage  of  which  I  spoke  in  my  letter  from 
York.  It  belongs  to  an  early  chapter  in  the  third  volume ;  and  very 
remarkable  it  is  that  it  should  have  been  written  just  at  that  time." 


A   LOVE    STORY.  193 

Severe,  therefore,  as  his  loss  had  been,  and  lasting  as  its 
effects  were,  it  produced  in  him  nothing  like  a  settled  sor- 
row, nor  even  that  melancholy  which  sorrow  leaves  behind. 
Gibbon  has  said  to  himself,  that  as  a  mere  philosopher  he 
could  not  agree  with  the  Greeks,  in  thinking  that  those  who 
die  in  their  youth  are  favored  by  the  Gods : 

*Ov  of  Bfoi  (j>i\ovcriv  diro6vr}(TKei.  vcos. 

It  was  because  he  was  "a  mere  philosopher,"  that  he 
failed  to  perceive  a  truth  which  the  religious  heathen  ac- 
knowledged, and  which  is  so  trivial,  and  of  such  practical 
value,  that  it  may  now  be  seen  inscribed  upon  village  tomb- 
stones. The  Christian  knows  that  "Blessed  are  the  dead 
which  die  in  the  Lord ;  even  so  saith  the  Spirit."  And  the 
heart  of  the  Christian  mourner,  in  its  deepest  distress,  hath 
the  witness  of  the  Spirit  to  that  consolatory  assurance. 

In  this  faith  Leonard  regarded  his  bereavement.  His 
loss,  he  knew,  had  been  Margaret's  gain.  What,  if  she  had 
been  summoned  in  the  flower  of  her  years,  and  from  a  state 
of  connubial  happiness  which  there  had  been  nothing  to  dis- 
turb or  to  alloy  ?  How  soon  might  that  flower  have  been 
blighted,  —  how  surely  must  it  have  faded,  —  how  easily 
might  that  happiness  have  been  interrupted,  by  some  of 
those  evils  which  flesh  is  heir  to !  And  as  the  separation 
was  to  take  place,  how  mercifully  had  it  been  appointed 
that  he,  who  was  the  stronger  vessel,  should  be  the  survivor ! 
Even  for  their  child  this  was  the  best,  greatly  as  she  needed, 
and  would  need,  a  mother's  care.  His  paternal  solicitude 
would  supply  that  care,  as  far  as  it  was  possible  to  supply 
it ;  but  had  he  been  removed,  mother  and  child  must  have 
been  left  to  the  mercy  of  Providence,  without  any  earthly 
protector,  or  any  means  of  support. 

For  her  to  die  was  gain ;  in  him,  therefore,  it  were  sinful 
as  well  as  selfish  to  repine,  and  of  such  selfishness  and  sin 
his  heart  acouitted  him.  If  a  wish  could  have  recalled  her 
y  M 


194  ROBERT    SOUTHEY. 

to  life,  no  such  wish  would  ever  have  by  him  been  uttered, 
nor  ever  have  by  him  been  felt;  certain  he  was,  that  he 
loved  her  too  well  to  bring  her  again  into  this  world  of  in- 
stability and  trial.  Upon  earth  there  can  be  no  safe  happi- 


Ak!  male  FORTUNE  devota  est  ara  MANENTI. 
Fallit,  et  hcec  nullas  accipit  ara  pi-eces.* 

All  things  here  are  subject  to  Time  and  Mutability : 

Quod  tibi  largo,  dedit  Horn  dextra, 
Horn  furaci  rapid  sinistrdj 

We  must  be  in  eternity  before  we  can  be  secure  against 
cnange.  "  The  world,"  says  Cowper,  "  upon  which  we  close 
our  eyes  at  night,  is  never  the  same  with  that  on  which  we 
open  them  in  the  morning." 

It  was  to  the  perfect  Order  he  should  find  in  that  state 
upon  which  he  was  about  to  enter,  that  the  judicious  Hooker 
looked  forward  at  his  death  with  placid  and  profound  con- 
tentment. Because  he  had  been  employed  in  contending 
against  a  spirit  of  insubordination  and  schism  which  soon 
proved  fatal  to  his  country  ;  and  because  his  life  had  been 
passed  under  the  perpetual  discomfort  of  domestic  discord, 
the  happiness  of  Heaven  seemed,  in  his  estimation,  to  consist 
primarily  in  Order,  as,  indeed,  in  all  human  societies  this  is 
the  first  thing  needful.  The  discipline  which  Mr.  Bacon  had 
undergone  was  very  different  in  kind :  what  he  delighted  to 
think  was,  that  the  souls  of  those  whom  death  and  redemp- 
tion have  made  perfect,  are  in  a  world  where  there  is  110 
change,  nor  parting,  —  where  nothing  fades,  nothing  passes 
away  and  is  no  more  seen,  but  the  good  and  the  beautiful 
are  permanent. 

Miser,  chi  speme  in  cosa  mortal  pone ; 
Ma,  chi  non  ve  la  pone  '!  \ 

*  Wallius.  f  Casimir.  \  Petrarch. 


A   LOVE   STORY.  19,5 

When  Wilkie  was  in  the  Escurial  looking  at  Titian's 
famous  picture  of  the  Last  Supper,  in  the  refectory  there, 
an  old  Jeronimite  said  to  him,  "  I  have  sat  daily  in  sight  of 
that  picture  for  now  nearly  threescore  years ;  during  that 
time  my  companions  have  dropped  off,  one  after  another,  — 
all  who  were  my  seniors,  all  who  were  my  contemporaries, 
and  many,  or  most  of  those  who  were  younger  than  myself; 
more  than  one  generation  has  passed  away,  and  there  the 
figures  in  the  picture  have  remained  unchanged !  I  look  at 
them  till  I  sometimes  think  that  they  are  the  realities,  and 
we  but  shadows ! "  * 

I  wish  I  could  record  the  name  of  the  monk  by  whom 
that  natural  feeling  was  so  feelingly  and  strikingly  ex- 


"  The  shows  of  things  are  better  than  themselves," 

says  the  author  of  the  Tragedy  of  Nero,  whose  name  also 
I  could  wish  had  been  forthcoming;  and  the  classical  reader 
will  remember  the  lines  of  Sophocles  :  — 

lOp<5  yap  Tjpas  ovdcv  ovras  oXXo,  TT\T)V 

otronrfp  £o>/Ltev,  TJ  KOV<J)T)V  (T<idv.  t 


These  are  reflections  which  should  make  us  think 

Of  that  same  time  when  no  more  change  shall  be, 

But  steadfast  rest  of  all  things,  firmly  stayd 

Upon  the  pillars  of  Eternity, 

That  is  contraire  to  mutability  ; 

For  all  that  moveth  doth  in  change  delight  : 

But  thenceforth  all  shall  rest  eternally 

With  Him  that  is  the  God  of  Sabaoth  hight, 

O  that  great  Sabaoth  God  grant  me  that  sabbath's  sight.  J 

*  See  the  very  beautiful  lines  of  Wordsworth  in  the  "  Yarrow 
Revisited."  The  affecting  incident  is  introduced  in  "Lines  on  a 
Portrait." 

\  Sophc:les.  J  Spenser. 


196  ROBERT    SOUTHEY. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

A  COUNTRY  PARISH.  SOME  WHOLESOME  EXTRACTS,  SOME  TRUH 
ANECDOTES,  AND  SOME  USEFUL  HINTS,  WHICH  WILL  NOT  BE 
TAKEN  BY  THOSE  WHO  NEED  THEM  MOST. 

Ifyr,  e  inconveniente,  che  ddle  cose  delettabili  dlcune  ne  sieno  utili,  cosi  come 
dell'  utili  moke  ne  sono  delettabili,  et  in  tutte  due  alcune  si  truovono 
honeste. 

LEONE  MEDICO  (HEBREO.) 

MR.  BACON'S  parsonage  was  as  humble  a  dwelling  in  all 
respects  as  the  cottage  in  which  his  friend  Daniel  was  born. 
A  best  kitchen  was  its  best  room,  and  in  its  furniture  an 
Observantine  Friar  would  have  seen  nothing  that  he  could 
have  condemned  as  superfluous.  His  college  and  later 
school  books,  with  a  few  volumes  which  had  been  presented 
to  him  by  the  more  grateful  of  his  pupils,  composed  his 
scanty  library  :  they  were  either  books  of  needful  reference, 
or  such  as  upon  every  fresh  perusal  might  afford  new 
delight.  But  he  had  obtained  the  use  of  the  Church  Li- 
brary at  Doncaster  by  a  payment  of  twenty  shillings,  accord- 
ing to  the  terms  of  the  foundation.  Folios  from  that 
collection  might  be  kept  three  months,  smaller  volumes, 
one  or  two,  according  to  their  size;  and  as  there  were 
many  works  in  it  of  solid  contents  as  well  as  sterling  value, 
he  was  in  no  such  want  of  intellectual  food,  as  too  many  of 
his  brethren  are,  even  at  this  time.  How  much  good  might 
have  been  done,  and  how  much  evil  might  probably  have 
been  prevented,  if  Dr.  Bray's  design  for  the  foundation 
of  parochial  libraries  had  been  everywhere  carried  into 
effect ! 

The  parish  contained  between  five  and  six  hundred  souls. 
There  was  no  one  of  higher  rank  among  them  than  entitled 
him,  according  to  the  custom  of  those  days,  to  be  styled 


A   LOVE   STORY.  197 

gentleman  upon  his  tombstone.  They  weie  plain  people, 
who  had  neither  manufactories  to  corrupt,  alehouses  to 
brutalize,  nor  newspapers  to  mislead  them.  At  first  com- 
ing among  them  he  had  won  their  good-will  by  his  affability 
and  benign  conduct,  and  he  had  afterwards  gained  their 
respect  and  affection  in  an  equal  degree. 

There  were  two  services  at  his  church,  but  only  one  ser- 
mon, which  never  fell  short  of  fifteen  minutes  in  length,  and 
seldom  extended  to  half  an  hour.  It  was  generally  abridged 
from  some  good  old  divine.  His  own  compositions  were 
few,  and  only  upon  points  on  which  he  wished  carefully 
to  examine  and  digest  his  own  thoughts,  or  which  were 
peculiarly  suited  to  some  or  other  of  his  hearers.  His  whole 
stock  might  be  deemed  scanty  in  these  days  ;  but  there  was 
not  one  in  it  which  would  not  well  bear  repetition,  and  the 
more  observant  of  his  congregation  liked  that  they  should  be 
repeated. 

Young  ministers  are  earnestly  advised  long  to  refrain 
from  preaching  their  own  productions,  in  an  excellent  little 
book  addressed  by  a  Father  to  his  Son,  preparatory  to  his 
receiving  holy  orders.  Its  title  is  a  "Monitor  for  Young 
Ministers,"  and  every  parent  who  has  a  son  so  circum- 
stanced would  do  well  to  put  it  into  his  hands.  "  It  is  not 
possible,"  says  this  judicious  writer,  "  that  a  young  minister 
can  at  first  be  competent  to  preach  his  sermons  with  effect, 
even  if  his  abilities  should  qualify  him  to  write  well.  His 
very  youth  and  youthful  manner,  both  in  his  style  of  writing 
and  in  his  delivery,  will  preclude  him  from  being  effective. 
Unquestionably  it  is  very  rare  indeed  for  a  man  of  his  age 
to  have  his  mental  abilities  sufficiently  chastened,  or  his 
method  sufficiently  settled,  to  be  equal  to  the  composition 
of  a  sermon  fit  for  public  use,  even  if  it  should  receive  the 
advantage  of  chaste  and  good  delivery.  On  every  account, 
therefore,  it  is  wise  and  prudent  to  be  slow  and  backward  in 
venturing  to  produce  his  own  efforts,  or  in  thinking  that 


198  ROBERT    SOUTHEY. 

they  are  fit  for  the  public  ear.  There  is  an  abundant  field 
of  the  works  of  others  open  to  him  from  the  wisest  and  the 
best  of  men,  the  weight  of  whose  little  fingers,  in  argument 
or  instruction,  will  be  greater  than  his  own  loins  even  at  his 
highest  maturity.  There  is  clearly  no  want  of  new  compo- 
sitions, excepting  on  some  new  or  occasional  emergencies  : 
for  there  is  not  an  open  subject  in  the  Christian  religion, 
which  has  not  been  discussed  by  men  of  the  greatest  learn- 
ing and  piety,  who  have  left  behind  them  numerous  works 
for  our  assistance  and  edification.  Many  of  these  are  so 
neglected  that  they  are  become  almost  new  ground  for  our 
generation.  To  these  he  may  freely  resort,  —  till  expe- 
rience and  a  rational  and  chastened  confidence  shall  warrant 
him  in  believing  himself  qualified  to  work  upon  his  own 
resources." 

•'He  that  learns  of  young  men,"  says  Rabbi  Jose  Bar 
Jehudah,  "  is  like  a  man  that  eats  unripe  grape*,  or  that 
drinks  wine  out  of  the  wine-press ;  but  he  that  learneth  of 
the  ancient,  is  like  a  man  that  eateth  ripe  grapes,  and  drink- 
eth  wine  that  is  old."  * 

It  was  not  in  pursuance  of  any  judicious  advice  like  this 
that  Mr.  Bacon  followed  the  course  here  pointed  out,  but 
from  his  own  good  sense  and  natural  humility.  His  only 
ambition  was  to  be  useful;  if  a  desire  may  be  called  ambi- 
tious which  orgiuated  in  the  sincere  sense  of  duty.  To 
think  of  distinguishing  himself  in  any  other  way,  would  for 
him,  he  well  knew,  have  been  worse  than  an  idle  dream. 
The  time  expended  in  composing  a  sermon  as  a  perfunctory 
official  business,  would  have  been  worse  than  wasted  for 
himself,  and  the  time  employed  in  delivering  it,  no  better 
than  wasted  upon  his  congregation.  He  was  especially 
careful  never  to  weary  them,  and,  therefore,  never  to  preach 
anything  which  was  not  likely  to  engage  their  attention, 
and  make  at  least  some  present  impression.  His  own  ser- 

*  Lightfoot. 


A   LOVE   STORY.  199 

raons  effected  this,  because  they  were  always  composed  with 
some  immediate  view,  or  under  the  influence  of  some  deep 
and  strong  feeling:  and  in  his  adopted  ones,  the  different 
manner  of  the  different  authors  produced  an  awakening 
effect.  Good  sense  is  as  often  to  be  found  among  the  illit- 
erate, as  among  those  who  have  enjoyed  the  opportunities 
of  education.  Many  of  his  hearers  who  knew  but  one 
meaning  of  the  word  style,  and  had  never  heard  it  used  in 
any  other,  perceived  a  difference  in  the  manner  of  Bishops 
Hall  and  Sanderson  and  Jeremy  Taylor,  of  Barrow  and 
South  and  Scott,  without  troubling  themselves  about  the 
cause,  or  being  in  the  slightest  degree  aware  of  it. 

Mr.  Bacon  neither  undervalued  his  parishioners,  nor  over- 
valued the  good  which  could  be  wrought  among  them  by 
direct  instruction  of  this  kind.  While  he  used  perspicuous 
language,  he  knew  that  they  who  listened  to  it  would  be 
able  to  follow  the  argument ;  and  as  he  drew  always  from 
the  wells  of  English  unclefiled,  he  was  safe  on  that  point. 
But  that  all  even  of  the  adults  would  listen,  and  that  all 
even  of  those  who  did,  would  do  anything  more  than  hear, 
he  was  too  well  acquainted  with  human  nature  to  expect. 

A  woman  in  humble  life  was  asked  one  day  on  the  way 
back  from  church,  whether  she  had  understood  the  sermon  ; 
a  stranger  had  preached,  and  his  discourse  resembled  one  of 
Mr.  Bacon's  neither  in  length  nor  depth.  "  Wud  I  hae  the 
persumption  ?  "  was  her  simple  and  contented  ans\ver.  The 
quality  of  the  discourse  signified  nothing  to  her ;  she  had 
done  her  duty,  as  well  as  she  could,  in  hearing  it;  and  she 
went  to  her  house  justified  rather  than  some  of  those  who 
had  attended  to  it  critically ;  or  who  had  turned  to  the  text 
in  their  Bibles  when  it  was  given  out. 

"  Well,  Master  Jackson,"  said  his  minister,  walking  home- 
ward after  service  with  an  industrious  laborer,  who  was  a 
constant  attendant ;  "  well,  Master  Jackson,  Sunday  must  be 
a  blessed  day  of  rest  for  you,  who  work  so  hard  all  the 


200  EGBERT    SOUTHEY. 

week !  And  you  make  a  good  use  of  the  day,  for  you  are 
always  to  be  seen  at  church ! " — "  Ay,  sir,"  replied  Jack- 
son, "  it  is  indeed  a  blessed  day ;  I  works  hard  enough  all 
the  week,  and  then  I  comes  to  church  o'  Sundays,  and  sets 
me  down,  and  lays  my  legs  up,  and  thinks  o'  nothing." 

"  Let  my  candle  go  out  in  a  stink,  when  I  refuse  to  con- 
fess from  whom  I  have  lighted  it"  *  The  author  to  whose 
little  book  f  I  am  beholden  for  this  true  anecdote,  after  say- 
ing, "  Such  was  the  religion  of  this  worthy  man,"  justly 
adds,  "  and  such  must  be  the  religion  of  most  men  of  his  sta- 
tion. Doubtless,  it  is  a  wise  dispensation  that  it  is  so. 
For  so  it  has  been  from  the  beginning  of  the  world,  and 
there  is  no  visible  reason  to  suppose  that  it  can  ever  be 
otherwise." 

"  In  spite,"  says  this  judicious  writer,  "  of  all  the  zealous 
wishes  and  efforts  of  the  most  pious  and  laborious  teachers, 
the  religion  of  the  bulk  of  the  people  must  and  will  ever  be 
little  more  than  mere  habit,  and  confidence  in  others.  This 
must  of  necessity  be  the  case  with  all  men,  who,  from  defect 
of  nature  or  education,  or  from  other  worldy  causes,  have 
not  the  power  or  the  disposition  to  think ;  and  it  cannot  be 
disputed  that  the  far  greater  number  of  mankind  are  of  this 
class.  These  facts  give  peculiar  force  to  those  lessons 
which  teach  the  importance  and  efficacy  of  good  example 
from  those  who  are  blessed  with  higher  qualifications  ;  and 
they  strongly  demonstrate  the  necessity,  that  the  zeal  of 
those  who  wish  to  impress  the  people  with  the  deep  and 
awful  mysteries  of  religion  should  be  tempered  by  wisdom 
and  discretion,  no  less  than  by  patience,  forbearance,  and 
a  gieat  latitude  of  indulgence  for  uncontrollable  circum- 
stances. They  also  call  upon  us  most  powerfully  to  do  all 
we  can  to  provide  such  teachers,  and  imbue  them  with  such 
principles  as  shall  not  endanger  the  good  cause  by  over 

*  Fuller.  t  Few  Words  on  many  Subjects. 


A   LOVE    STORY.  201 

earnest  efforts  to  effect  more  than,  in  the  nature  of  things, 
can  be  done ;  or  disturb  the  existing  good  by  attempting 
more  than  will  be  borne,  or  by  producing  hypocritical  pre- 
tences of  more  than  can  be  really  felt" 


CHAPTER    X. 

SHOWING  HOW  THE  VICAR  DEALT  WITH  THE  JUVENILE  PART  OF 
HIS  FLOCK  J  AND  HOW  HE  WAS  OF  OPINION  THAT  THE  MORE 
PLEASANT  THE  WAT  IN  WHICH  CHILDREN  ARE  TRAINED  UP  TO 
GO  CAN  BE  MADE  FOR  THEM,  THE  LESS  LIKELY  THEY  WILL 
BE  TO  DEPART  FROM  IT. 

Sweet  were  the  sauce  would  please  each  kind  of  taste, 
The  life,  likewise,  were  pure  that  never  swerved; 

For  spiteful  tongues,  in  cankered  stomachs  placed, 
Deem  worst  of  things  which  best,  percase,  deserved. 

But  what  for  that  ?     This  medicine  may  suffice, 

To  scorn  the  rest,  and  seek  to  please  the  wise. 

SIR  WALTER  RALEIGH. 

THE  first  thing  which  Mr.  Bacon  had  done  after  taking 
possession  of  his  vicarage,  and  obtaining  such  information 
about  his  parishioners  as  the  more  considerate  of  them 
could  impart,  was  to  inquire  into  the  state  of  the  children 
in  every  household.  He  knew  that  to  win  the  mother's 
good-will  was  the  surest  way  to  win  that  of  the  family,  and 
to  win  the  children  was  a  good  step  toward  gaining  that 
of  the  mother.  In  those  days  reading  and  writing  were 
thought  as  little  necessary  for  the  lower  class,  as  the  art 
of  spelling  for  the  class  above  them,  or  indeed  for  any 
except  the  learned.  Their  ignorance  in  this  respect  was 
sometimes  found  to  be  inconvenient,  but  by  none,  perhaps, 
except  here  and  there  by  a  conscientious  and  thoughtful 
clergyman,  was  it  felt  to  be  an  evil,  —  an  impediment  in 
the  way  of  that  moral  and  religious  instruction,  without 
which  men  are  in  danger  of  becoming  as  the  beasts  thai 
9* 


202  ROBERT    SOUTHEY. 

perish.  Yet  the  common  wish  of  advancing  their  children 
in  the  world,  made  most  parents  in  this  station  desire  to 
obtain  the  advantage  of  what  they  called  book-learning  for 
any  son,  who  was  supposed  to  manifest  a  disposition  likely 
to  profit  by  it.  To  make  him  a  scholar  was  to  raise  him  a 
step  above  themselves. 

Qui  ha  les  lettres,  ha  I'adresse 

Au  double  d'un  qui  n'en  ha  point.* 

Partly  tor  this  reason,  and  still  more  that  industrious  moth- 
ers might  be  relieved  from  the  care  of  looking  after  their 
children,  there  were  few  villages  in  which,  as  in  Mr. 
Bacon's  parish,  some  poor  woman  in  the  decline  of  life  and 
of  fortune  did  not  obtain  day-scholars  enough  to  eke  out  her 
scanty  means  of  subsistence. 

The  village  schoolmistress,  such  as  Shenstone  describes 
in  his  admirable  poem,  and  such  as  Kirke  White  drew  from 
the  life,  is  no  longer  a  living  character.  The  new  system 
of  education  has  taken  from  this  class  of  women  the  staff 
of  their  declining  age,  as  the  spinning-jennies  have  silenced 
the  domestic  music  of  the  spinning-wheel.  Both  changes 
have  come  on  unavoidably  in  the  progress  of  human  affairs. 
It  is  well  when  any  change  brings  with  it  nothing  worse 
than  some  temporary  and  incidental  evil ;  but  if  the  moral 
machinery  can  counteract  the  great  and  growing  evils  of 
the  manufacturing  system,  it  will  be  the  greatest  moral 
miracle  that  has  ever  been  wrought. 

Sunday  schools,  which  make  Sunday  a  day  of  toil  to  the 
teachers,  and  the  most  irksome  day  of  the  week  to  the  chil- 
dren, had  not  at  that  time  been  devised  as  a  palliative  for 
the  profligacy  of  large  towns,  and  the  worsened  and  worsen- 
ing condition  of  the  poor.  Mr.  Bacon  endeavored  to  make 
the  parents  perform  their  religious  duty  toward  their  chil- 
dren, either  by  teaching  them  what  they  could  themselves 
teach,  or  by  sending  them  where  their  own  want  of  knowl- 
*Baif. 


A   LOVE   STORY.  203 

edge  might  be  supplied.  Whether  the  children  went  to 
school  or  not,  it  was  his  wish  that  they  should  be  taught 
their  prayers,  the  Creed,  and  the  Commandments,  at  home. 
These  he  thought  were  better  learned  at  the  mother'?  knees 
than  from  any  other  teacher ;  and  he  knew  also  how  whole- 
some for  the  mother  it  was,  that  the  child  should  receive 
from  her  its  first  spiritual  food,  the  milk  of  sound  doctrine. 
In  a  purely  agricultural  parish,  there  were  at  that  time  no 
parents  in  a  state  of  such  brutal  ignorance  as  to  be  unable 
to  teach  these,  though  they  might  never  have  been  taught 
to  read.  When  the  father  or  mother  could  read,  he  ex- 
pected that  they  should  also  teach  their  children  the 
Catechism ;  in  other  cases  this  was  left  to  his  humble 
coadjutrix,  the  schoolmistress. 

During  the  summer  and  part  of  the  autumn,  he  followed 
the  good  old  usage  of  catechising  the  children,  after  the 
second  lesson  in  the  evening  service.  His  method  was  to 
ask  a  few  questions  in  succession,  and  only  from  those  who 
he  knew  were  able  to  answer  them ;  and  after  each  answer 
he  entered  into  a  brief  exposition  suited  to  their  capacity. 
His  manner  was  so  benevolent,  and  he  had  made  himself 
so  familiar  in  his  visits,  which  were  at  once  pastoral  and 
friendly,  that  no  child  felt  alarmed  at  being  singled  out; 
they  regarded  it  as  a  mark  of  distinction,  and  the  parents 
were  proud  of  seeing  them  thus  distinguished.  This  prac- 
tice was  discontinued  in  winter ;  because  he  knew  that  to 
koep  a  congregation  in  the  cold  is  not  the  way  either  to 
quickei  or  cherish  devotional  feeling.  Once  a  week  during 
Lent  he  examined  all  the  children,  on  a  week-day;  the  last 
examination  was  in  Easter  week,  after  which  each  was  sent 
home  happy  with  a  homely  cake,  the  gift  of  a  wealthy 
parishioner,  who  by  this  means  contributed  not  a  little  to 
the  good  effect  of  the  pastor's  diligence. 

The  foundation  was  thus  laid  by  teaching  the  rising  gen- 
eration their  duty  towards  God  and  towards  their  neighbor, 


204  ROBERT    SOUTHEY. 

and  so  far  training  them  in  the  way  that  they  should  go. 
In  the  course  of  a  few  years  every  household,  from  the 
highest  to  the  lowest,  (the  degrees  were  neither  great 
nor  many,)  had  learned  to  look  upon  him  as  their  friend. 
There  was  only  one  in  the  parish  whose  members  were 
upon  a  parity  with  him  in  manners,  none  in  literary  cul- 
ture ;  but  in  good-will,  and  in  human  sympathy,  he  was 
upon  a  level  with  them  all.  Never  interfering  in  the  con- 
cerns of  any  family,  unless  his  interference  was  solicited,  he 
was  consulted  upon  all  occasions  of  trouble  or  importance. 
Incipient  disputes,  which  would  otherwise  have  afforded 
grist  for  the  lawyer's  mill,  were  adjusted  by  his  mediation  ; 
and  anxious  parents,  when  they -had  cause  to  apprehend 
that  their  children  were  going  wrong,  knew  no  better 
course  than  to  communicate  their  fears  to  him,  and  re- 
quest that  he  would  administer  some  timely  admonition. 
Whenever  he  was  thus  called  on,  or  had  of  himself  per- 
ceived that  reproof  or  warning  was  required,  it  was  given 
in  private,  or  only  in  presence  of  the  parents,  and  always 
with  a  gentleness  which  none  but  an  obdurate  disposition 
could  resist.  His  influence  over  the  younger  part  of  his 
flock  was  the  greater  because  he  was  no  enemy  to  any  in- 
nocent sports,  but,  on  the  contrary,  was  pleased  to  see  them 
dance  round  the  May-pole,  encouraged  them  to  dress  their 
doors  with  oaken  boughs  on  the  day  of  King  Charles's 
happy  restoration,  and  to  wear  an  oaken  garland  in  the 
hat,  or  an  oak-apple  on  its  sprig  in  the  button-hole;  went 
to  see  their  bonfire  on  the  5th  of  November,  and  enter- 
tained the  morris-dancers  when  they  called  upon  him  in 
their  Christmas  rounds. 

Mr.  Bacon  was  in  his  parish  what  a  moralizing  old  poet 
wished  himself  to  be,  in  these  pleasing  stanzas :  — 

I  would  I  were  an  excellent  divine.. 

That  had  the  Bible  at  my  fingers'  ends, 


A  LOVE   STORY.  205 

That  men  might  hear  out  of  this  mouth  of  mine 

How  God  doth  make  his  enemies  his  friends ; 
Rather  than  with  a  thundering  and  long  prayer 
Be  led  into  presumption,  or  despair. 

This  would  I  be,  and  would  none  other  be 

But  a  religious  servant  of  my  God  : 
And  know  there  is  none  other  God  but  He 

And  willingly  to  suffer  Mercy's  rod, 
Joy  in  his  grace  and  live  but  in  his  love, 
And  seek  my  bliss  but  in  the  world  above. 

And  I  would  frame  a  kind  of  faithful  prayer 

For  all  estates  within  the  state  of  grace; 
That  careful  love  might  never  know  despair, 

Nor  servile  fear  might  faithful  love  deface ; 
And  this  would  I  both  day  and  night  devise 
To  make  my  humble  spirits  exercise. 

And  I  would  read  the  rules  of  sacred  life, 

Persuade  the  troubled  soul  to  patience, 
The  husband  care,  and  comfort  to  the  wife, 

To  child  and  servant  due  obedience, 
Faith  to  the  friend  and  to  the  neighbor  peace, 
That  love  might  live,  and  quarrels  all  might  cease ; 

Pray  for  the  health  of  all  that  are  diseased, 

Confession  unto  all  that  are  convicted, 
And  patience  unto  all  that  are  displeased, 

And  comfort  unto  all  that  are  afflicted, 
And  mercy  unto  all  that  have  offended, 
And  graco  to  all,  that  all  may  be  amended.* 

*  N.  B.,  supposed  to  be  Nicholas  Breton 


206  ROBERT    SOUTHEY. 

CHAPTER    XI. 

SOME  ACCOUNT  OF  A  RETIRED  TOBACCONIST  AND  HIS  FAMILY. 

Non  fumum  ex  Jidgore,  sed  ex  fumo  dare  liicem. 

HORACE. 

IN  all  Mr.  Bacon's  views  he  was  fortunate  enough  to 
have  ths  hearty  concurrence  of  the  wealthiest  person  in  the 
parish.  This  was  a  good  man,  Allison  by  name,  who,  hav- 
ing realized  a  respectable  fortune  in  the  metropolis  as  a 
tobacconist,  and  put  out  his  sons  in  life  according  to  their 
respective  inclinations,  had  retired  from  business  at  the  age 
of  threescore,  and  established  himself  with  an  unmarried 
daughter,  and  a  maiden  sister  some  ten  years  younger  than 
himself,  in  his  native  village,  that  he  might  there,  when  his 
hour  should  come,  be  gathered  to  his  fathers. 

u  The  providence  of  God,"  says  South,  '•  has  so  ordered 
the  course  of  things,  that  there  is  no  action,  the  usefulness 
of  which  has  made  it  the  matter  of  duty  and  of  a  profession, 
but  a  man  may  bear  the  continual  pursuit  of  it,  without 
loathing  or  satiety.  The  same  shop  and  trade  that  employs 
a  man  in  his  youth,  employs  him  also  in  his  age.  Every 
morning  he  rises  fresh  to  his  hammer  and  his  anvil :  custom 
has  naturalized  his  labor  to  him ;  his  shop  is  his  element, 
and  he  cannot,  with  any  enjoyment  of  himself,  live  out  of 
it."  The  great  preacher  contrasts  this  with  the  wearisome- 
ness  of  an  idle  life,  and  the  misery  of  a  continual  round  of 
what  the  world  calls  pleasure.  "  But  now,"  says  he,  "  if 
God  has  interwoven  such  a  contentment  with  the  works 
of  our  ordinary  calling,  how  much  superior  and  more  re- 
fined must  that  be  that  arises  from  the  survey  of  a  pious 
and  well-governed  life  ?  " 

This  passage  bears  upon  Mr.  Allison's  case,  partly  in  the 
consolatory  fact  which  it  states,  and  wholly  in  the  applica- 


A  LOVE   STORY.  207 

| 

tion  which  South  has  made  of  it.  At  the  age  of  fourteen 
he  had  been  apprenticed  to  an  uncle  in  Bishopsgate  Street 
Within ;  and  twenty  years  after,  on  that  uncle's  death,  had 
succeeded  to  his  old  and  well-established  business.  But 
though  he  had  lived  there  prosperously  and  happily  six  and 
twenty  years  longer,  he  had  contracted  no  such  love  for  it 
as  to  overcome  the  recollections  of  his  childhood.  Grateful 
as  the  smell  of  snuff  and  tobacco  had  become  to  him,  he 
still  remembered  that  cowslips  and  violets  were  sweeter ; 
and  that  the  breath  of  a  May  morning  was  more  exhila- 
rating than  the  air  of  his  own  shop,  impregnated  as  it  was 
with  the  odor  of  the  best  Virginia.  So  having  buried  his 
wife,  who  was  a  Londoner,  and  made  over  the  business  to 
his  eldest  son,  he  returned  to  his  native  place,  with  the 
intention  of  dying  there;  but  he  was  in  sound  health  of 
body  and  mind,  and  his  green  old  age  seemed  to  promise, 
—  as  far  as  anything  can  promise,  —  length  of  days. 

Of  his  two  other  sons,  one  had  chosen  to  be  a  clergyman, 
and  approved  his  choice  both  by  his  parts  and  diligence; 
for  he  had  gone  off  from  Merchant-Tailors'  School  to  St. 
John's,  Oxford,  and  was  then  a  fellow  of  that  college.  The 
other  was  a  mate  in  the  Merchants'  service,  and  would  soon 
have  the  command  of  a  ship  in  it.  The  desire  of  seeing 
the  world  led  him  to  this  way  of  life ;  and  that  desire  had 
been  unintentionally  implanted  by  his  father,  who,  in  making 
himself  acquainted  with  everything  relating  to  the  herb  out 
of  which  his  own  fortune  was  raised,  had  become  fond  of 
reading  voyages*  and  travels.  His  conversation  induced  the 
lad  to  read  these  books,  and  the  books  confirmed  the  incli- 
nation which  had  already  been  excited ;  and,  as  the  boy  was 
of  an  adventurous  temper,  he  thought  it  best  to  let  him 
follow  the  pursuit  on  which  his  mind  was  bent. 

The  change  to  a  Yorkshire  village  was  not  too  great  for 
Mr.  Allison,  even  after  residing  nearly  half  a  century  in 
Bishopsgate  Street  Within.  The  change  in  his  own  house- 
hold, indeed,  rendered  it  expedient  for  him  to  begin,  in  this 


208  ROBERT    SOUTHEY. 

sense,  a  new  life.  He  had  lost  his  mate ;  the  young  birds- 
were  full-fledged  and  had  taken  flight ;  and  it  was  time  that 
he  should  look  out  a  retreat  for  himself  and  the  single  nest- 
ling that  remained  under  his  wing,  now  that  his  son  and 
successor  had  brought  home  a  wife.  The  marriage  had 
been  altogether  with  his  approbation  ;  but  it  altered  his 
position  in  the  house ;  and  in  a  still  greater  degree  his 
sister's  ;  moreover,  the  nest  would  soon  be  wanted  for  an- 
other brood.  Circumstances  thus  compelled  him  to  put  in 
effect  what  had  been  the  dream  of  his  youth,  and  the  still 
remote  intention  of  his  middle  age. 

Miss  Allison,  like  her  brother,  regarded  this  removal  as  a 
great  and  serious  change,  preparatory  to  the  only  greater 
one  in  this  world  that  now  remained  for  both  ;  but,  like 
him,  she  regarded  it  rather  seriously  than  sadly,  or  sadly 
only  in  the  old  sober  meaning  of  the  word ;  and  there  was 
a  soft,  sweet,  evening  sunshine  in  their  prospect,  which  both 
partook,  because  both  had  retained  a  deep  affection  for  the 
scenes  of  their  childhood.  To  Betsey,  her  niece,  nothing 
could  be  more  delightful  than  the  expectation  of  such  a  re- 
moval. She,  who  was  then  only  entering  her  teens,  had 
nothing  to  regret  in  leaving  London ;  and  the  place  to 
which  she  was  going  was  the  very  spot  which,  of  all  others 
in  this  wide  world,  from  the  time  in  which  she  -was  con- 
scious of  forming  a  wish,  she  had  wished  most  to  see.  Her 
brother,  the  sailor,  was  not  more  taken  with  the  story  of 
Pocahontas  and  Captain  Smith,  or  Dampier's  Voyages,  than 
she  was  with  her  aunt's  details  of  the  farm  and  the  dairy  at 
Thaxted  Grange,  the  May-games  and  the  Christmas  gam- 
bols, the  days  that  were  gone,  and  the  elders  who  were 
departed.  To  one  born  and  bred  in  the  heart  of  London, 
who  had  scarcely  ever  seen  a  flock  of  sheep,  except  when 
they  were  driven  through  the  streets  to  or  from  Smithfield, 
no  fairy  tale  could  present  more  for  the  imagination  than  a 
description  of  green  fields  and  rural  life.  The  charm  of 
truth  heightened  it,  and  the  stronger  charm  of  natural 


A   LOVE    STORY.  209 

piety;  for  the  personages  of  the  tale  were  her  near  kin, 
whose  names  she  had  learned  to  love,  and  whose  living 
memory  she  revered,  but  whose  countenances  she  never 
could  behold  till  she  should  be  welcomed  by  them  in  the 
everlasting  mansions  of  the  righteous. 

None  of  the  party  were  disappointed  when  they  had  es- 
tablished themselves  at  the  Grange.  Mr.  Allison  found  full 
occupation  at  first  in  improving  the  house,  and  afterwards 
in  his  fields  and  garden.  Mr.  Bacon  was  just  such  a  clergy- 
man as  he  would  have  chosen  for  his  parish  priest,  if  it  had 
been  in  his  power  to  choose,  only  he  would  have  had  him 
provided  with  a  better  benefice.  The  single  thing  on  which 
there  was  a  want  of  agreement  between  them  was,  that 
the  Vicar  neither  smoked  nor  took  snuff;  he  was  not  the 
worst  company  on  this  account,  for  he  had  no  dislike  to 
the  fragrance  of  a  pipe ;  but  his  neighbor  lost  the  pleasure 
which  he  would  have  had  in  supplying  him  with  the  best 
Pig-tail,  and  with  Strasburg  or  Rappee.  Miss  Allison  fell 
into  the  habits  of  her  new  station  the  more  easily,  because 
they  were  those  which  she  had  witnessed  in  her  early 
youth ;  she  distilled  waters,  dried  herbs,  and  prepared  con- 
serves, —  which  were  at  the  service  of  all  who  needed  them 
in  sickness.  Betsey  attached  herself  at  first  sight  to  Deborah, 
who  was  about  five  years  elder,  and  soon  became  to  her  as 
a  sister.  The  aunt  rejoiced  in  finding  so  suitable  a  friend 
and  companion  for  her  niece ;  and  as  this  connection  was  a 
pleasure  and  an  advantage  to  the  Allisons,  so  was  it  of  the 
greatest  benefit  to  Deborah. 

What  of  her  ensues 

I  list  not  prophesy,  but  let  Time's  news 
Be  known,  when  't  is  brought  forth.     Of  this  allow 
If  ever  you  have  spent  time  worse  ere  now ; 
If  never  yet,  the  Author  then  doth  say, 
He  wishes  earnestly  you  never  may.* 

*  Shakespeare. 


210  ROBERT    SOUTHEY. 

CHAPTER    XII. 

MORE  CONCERNING  THE  AFORESAID  TOBACCO!  1ST. 

I  doubt  nothing  at  all  but  that  you  shall  like  the  man  every  day  better 
than  other  ;  for  verily  I  think  he  lacketh  not  of  those  qualities  which 
should  become  any  honest  man  to  have,  over  and  besides  the  gift  of 
nature  wherewith  God  hath  above  the  common  rate  endued  him. 

ARCHBISHOP  CKANMER. 

MR.  ALLISON  was  as  quiet  a  subject  as  Peter  Hopkins, 
but  he  was  not  like  him  a  political  quietist  from  indiffer- 
ence, for  he  had  a  warm  sense  of  loyalty,  and  a  well-rooted 
attachment  to  the  constitution  of  his  country  in  church  and 
state.  His  ancestors  had  suffered  in  the  Great  Rebellion, 
and  much  the  greater  part  of  their  never  large  estates  had 
been  alienated  to  raise  the  fines  imposed  upon  them  as  de- 
linquents. The  uncle,  whom  he  succeeded  in  Bishopsgate 
Street,  had,  in  his  early  apprenticeship,  assisted  at  burning 
the  Rump,  and  in  maturer  years  had  joined  as  heartily  in 
the  rejoicings  when  the  Seven  Bishops  were  released  from 
the  Tower:  he  subscribed  to  Walker's  "Account  of  the 
Sufferings  of  the  Clergy,"  and  had  heard  sermons  preached 
by  the  famous  Dr.  Scott  (which  were  afterwards  incorpo- 
rated in  his  great  work  upon  the  Christian  Life)  in  the 
church  of  St.  Peter-le-Poor  (oddly  so  called,  seeing  that 
there  are  few  districts  within  the  City  of  London  so  rich, 
insomuch  that  the  last  historian  of  the  metropolis  believed 
the  parish  to  have  scarcely  a  poor  family  in  it),  —  and  in 
All-hallows,  Lombard  Street,  where,  during  the  reign  of 
the  Godly,  the  puritanical  vestry  passed  a  resolution,  that 
if  any  persons  should  come  to  the  church  "  on  the  day 
called  Christ's  birthday,"  they  should  be  compelled  to 
leave  it. 

In  these  principles  Mr.  Allison  had  grown  up ;  and  with- 
out any  profession  of  extra  religion,  or  ever  wearing  a 


A   LOVE  STORY.  211 

sanctified  face,  he  had  in  the  evening  of  his  life  attained 
"  the  end  of  the  commandment,  which  is  charity,  proceeding 
from  a  pure  heart,  and  a  good  conscience,  and  a  faith  un- 
feigned." London  in  his  days  was  a  better  school  for  young 
men  in  trade  than  it  ever  was  before,  or  has  been  since. 
The  civic  power  had  quietly  and  imperceptibly  put  an  end 
to  that  club-law  which  once  made  the  apprentices  a  tur- 
bulent and  formidable  body,  at  any  moment  armed  as  well 
as  ready  for  a  riot ;  and  masters  exercised  a  sort  of  parental 
control  over  the  youth  intrusted  to  them,  which  in  later 
times  it  may  be  feared  has  not  been  so  conscientiously  ex- 
erted, because  it  is  not  likely  to  be  so  patiently  endured. 
Trade  itself  had  not  then  been  corrupted  by  that  ruinous 
spirit  of  competition,  which,  more  than  any  other  of  the 
evils  now  pressing  upon  us,  deserves  to  be  called  the  curse 
of  England  in  the  present  age.  At  all  times  men  have 
been  to  be  found,  who  engaged  in  hazardous  speculations, 
gamester  like,  according  to  their  opportunities,  or  who,  mis- 
taking the  means  for  the  end,  devoted  themselves  with 
miserable  fidelity  to  the  service  of  Mammon.  But  "  Live 
and  let  iive,"  had  not  yet  become  a  maxim  of  obsolete  mo- 
rality. We  had  our  monarchy,  or  hierarchy,  and  our  aristoc- 
racy, —  God  be  praised  for  the  benefits  which  have  been 
derived  from  all  three,  and  God  in  his  mercy  continue  them 
to  us  !  but  we  had  no  plutarchy,  no  millionnaires,  no  great 
capitalists  to  break  down  the  honest  and  industrious  trader 
with  the  weight  of  their  overbearing  and  overwhelming 
wealth.  They  who  had  enriched  themselves  in  the  course 
of  regular  and  honorable  commerce  withdrew  from  business, 
and  left  the  field  to  others.  Feudal  tyranny  had  passed 
away,  and  moneyed  tyranny  had  not  yet  arisen  in  its  stead, 
—  a  tyranny  baser  in  its  origin,  not  more  merciful  in  its 
operations,  and  with  less  in  its  appendages  to  redeem  it. 

Trade,  in  Mr.  Allison's  days,  was  a  school  of  thrift  and 
probity,  as  much  as  of  profit  and  loss ;  such  his  shop  had 


212  KOBERT    SOUTHEY. 

been  when  he  succeeded  to  it  upon  his  uncle's  decease,  and 
such  it  continued  to  be  when  he  transmitted  it  to  his  son. 
Old  Mr.  Strahan  the  printer  (the  founder  of  his  typarchical 
dynasty)  said  to  Dr.  Johnson,  that  "  there  are  few  ways  in 
Avhich  a  man  can  be  more  innocently  employed  than  in  get- 
ting money";  and  he  added,  that  "the  more  one  thinks  of 
this  the  juster  it  will  appear.1'  Johnson  agreed  with  him ; 
and  though  it  was  a  money-maker's  observation,  and  though 
the  more  it  is  considered  now,  the  more  fallacious  it  will  be 
found,  the  general  system  of  trade  might  have  justified  it 
at  that  time.  The  entrance  of  an  exciseman  never  occa- 
sioned any  alarm  or  apprehension  at  No.  113  Bishopsgate 
Street  Within,  nor  any  uncomfortable  feeling,  unless  the 
officer  happened  to  be  one  who,  by  giving  unnecessary 
trouble,  and  by  gratuitous  incivility  in  the  exercise  of 
authority,  made  an  equitable  law  odious  in  its  execution. 
They  never  there  mixed  weeds  with  their  tobacco,  nor 
adulterated  it  in  any  worse  way ;  and  their  snuff  was  never 
rendered  more  pungent  by  stirring  into  it  a  certain  propor- 
tion of  pounded  glass.  The  duties  were  honestly  paid,  with 
a  clear  perception  that  the  impost  fell  lightly  upon  all  whom 
it  affected,  and  affected  those  only  who  chose  to  indulge 
themselves  in  a  pleasure  which  was  still  cheap,  and  which, 
without  any  injurious  privation,  they  might  forego.  Nay, 
when  our  good  man  expatiated  upon  the  uses  of  tobacco, 
which  Mr.  Bacon  demurred  at,  and  the  Doctor  sometimes 
playfully  disputed,  he  ventured  an  opinion,  that  among  the 
final  causes  for  which  so  excellent  an  herb  had  been  cre- 
ated, the  facilities  afforded  by  it  towards  raising  the  revenue 
in  a  well-governed  country  like  our  own,  might  be  one. 

There  was  a  strong  family  likeness  between  him  and  his 
sister,  both  in  countenance  and  disposition.  Elizabeth  Alli- 
son was  a  person  for  whom  the  best  and  wisest  man  might 
have  thanked  Providence  if  she  had  been  allotted  to  him  for 
helpmate.  But  though  she  had,  in  Shakespeare's  language. 


A   LOVE  STORY.  213 

"  withered  on  the  virgin  thorn,"  hers  had  not  been  a  life  of 
single  blessedness  :  she  had  been  a  blessing  first  to  her  par- 
ents; then  to  her  brother  and  her  brother's  family,  where  she 
relieved  an  amiable  but  sickly  sister-in-law  from  those  do- 
mestic offices  which  require  activity  and  forethought ;  lastly, 
after  the  di.-persion  of  his  sons,  the  transfer  of  the  business 
to  the  eldest,  and  the  breaking-up  of  his  old  establishment, 
to  the  widower  and  his  daughter,  the  only  child  who  cleaved 
to  him,  —  not  like  Ruth  to  Naomi,  by  a  meritorious  act  of 
duty,  for  in  her  case  it  was  in  the  ordinary  course  of  things, 
without  either  sacrifice  or  choice ;  but  the  effect  in  endear- 
ing her  to  him  was  the  same. 

In  advanced  stages  of  society,  and  nowhere  more  than  in 
England  at  this  time,  the  tendency  of  all  things  is  to  weaken 
the  relations  between  parent  and  child,  and  frequently  to  de- 
stroy them,  reducing  human  nature  in  this  respect  nearer  to 
the  level  of  animal  life.  Perhaps  the  greater  number  of 
male  children  who  are  "  born  into  the  world,"  in  our  part 
of  it,  are  put  out  at  as  early  an  age,  proportionately,  as  the 
young  bird  is  driven  from  its  nest,  or  the  young  beast  turned 
off  by  its  dam  as  being  capable  of  feeding  and  protecting 
itself;  and  in  many  instances  they  are  as  totally  lost  to  the 
parent,  though  not  in  like  manner  forgotten.  Mr.  Allison 
never  saw  all  his  children  together  after  his  removal  from 
London.  The  only  time  when  his  three  sons  met  at  the 
Grange  was  when  they  came  there  to  attend  their  father's 
funeral ;  nor  would  they  then  have  been  assembled,  if  the 
Captain's  ship  had  not  happened  to  have  recently  arrived  in 
port. 

This  is  a  state  of  things  more  favorable  to  the  wealth 
than  to  the  happiness  of  nations.  It  was  a  natural  and  pious 
custom  in  patriarchal  times  that  the  dead  should  be  gath- 
ered unto  their  people.  "  Bury  me,"  said  Jacob,  when  he 
gave  his  dying  charge  to  his  sons,  —  "bury  me  with  my 
fathers  in  the  cave  that  is  in  the  field  of  Machpelah,  which 


2H  ROBERT   SOUTHEY. 

is  before  Mamre  in  the  land  of  Canaan,  which  Abraham 
bought  with  the  field  of  Ephron  the  Hittite,  for  a  posses- 
sion of  a  burying-place.  There  they  buried  Abraham  and 
Sarah  his  wife ;  there  they  buried  Isaac  and  Rebecca  his 
wife ;  and  there  I  buried  Leah."  Had  such  a  passage 
occurred  in  Homer,  or  in  Dante,  all  critics  would  have  con- 
curred in  admiring  the  truth  and  beauty  of  the  sentiment. 
He  had  buried  his  beloved  Rachel  by  the  way  where  she 
died ;  but,  although  he  remembered  this  at  his  death,  the 
orders  which  he  gave  were,  that  his  own  remains  should  be 
laid  in  the  sepulchre  of  his  fathers.  The  same  feeling  pre- 
vails among  many,  or  most  of  those  savage  tribes  who  are 
not  utterly  degraded.  With  them  the  tree  is  not  left  to  lie 
where  it  falls.  The  body  of  one  who  dies  on  an  expedition 
is  interred  on  the  spot,  if  distance  or  other  circumstances 
render  it  inconvenient  to  transport  the  corpse;  but,  how- 
ever long  the  journey,  it  is  considered  as  a  sacred  duty  that 
the  bones  should  at  some  time  or  other  be  brought  home. 
In  Scotland,  where  the  common  rites  of  sepulture  are 
performed  with  less  decency  than  in  any  other  Christian 
country,  the  care  with  which  family  burial-grounds  in  the 
remoter  parts  are  preserved,  may  be  referred  as  much  to 
natural  feeling  as  to  hereditary  pride. 

But  as  indigenous  flowers  are  eradicated  by  the  spade  and 
plough,  so  this  feeling  is  destroyed  in  the  stirring  and  bust- 
ling intercourse  of  commercial  life.  No  room  is  left  for  it ; 
as  little  of  it  at  this  time  remains  in  wide  America  as  in 
thickly-peopled  England.  That  to  which  soldiers  and  sail- 
ors are  reconciled  by  the  spirit  of  their  profession,  and  the 
chances  of  war  and  of  the  seas,  the  love  of  adventure  and 
the  desire  of  advancement  cause  others  to  regard  with  the 
same  indifference  ;  and  these  motives  are  so  prevalent,  that 
the  dispersion  of  families  and  the  consequent  disruption  of 
natural  ties,  if  not  occasioned  by  necessity,  would  now 
in  most  instances  be  the  effect  of  choice.  Even  those 


A   LOVE   STORY.  215 

to  whom  it  is  an  inevitable  evil,  and  who  feel  it  deeply  as 
such,  look  upon  it  as  something  in  the  appointed  course  of 
things,  as  much  as  infirmity  and  age  and  death. 

It  is  well  for  us  that  in  early  life  we  never  think  of  the 
vicissitudes  which  lie  before  us  ;  or  look  to  them  only  \*  ith 
pleasurable  anticipations  as  they  approach. 

Youth 

Knows  naught  of  changes  :  Age  hath  traced  them  oft, 
Expects  and  can  interpret  them.* 

The  thought  of  them,  when  it  comes  across  us  in  middle 
life  brings  with  it  only  a  transient  sadness,  like  the  shadow 
of  a  passing  cloud.  We  turn  our  eyes  from  them  while 
they  are  in  prospect ;  but  when  they  are  in  retrospect 
many  a  longing,  lingering  look  is  cast  behind.  So  long  as 
Mr.  Allison  was  in  business,  he  looked  to  Thaxted  Grange 
as  the  place  where  he  hoped  one  day  to  enjoy  the  blessings 
of  retirement,  —  that  otium  cum  dignitate,  which  in  a  certain 
sense  the  prudent  citizen  is  more  likely  to  attain  than  the 
successful  statesman.  It  was  the  pleasure  of  recollection 
that  gave  this  hope  its  zest  and  its  strength.  But  after  the 
object  which  during  so  many  years  he  had  held  in  view  had 
been  obtained,  his  day-dreams,  if  he  had  allowed  them  to 
take  their  course,  would  have  recurred  more  frequently  to 
Bishopsgate  Street  than  they  had  ever  wandered  from 
thence  to  the  scenes  of  his  boyhood.  They  recurred 
thither  oftener  than  he  wished,  although  few  men  have 
been  more  masters  of  themselves  ;  and  then  the  remem- 
brance of  his  wife,  whom  he  had  lost  by  a  lingering  disease 
in  middle  age;  and  of  the  children,  those  who  had  died 
during  their  childhood,  and  those  who  in  reality  were  almost 
as  much  lost  to  him  in  the  ways  of  the  world,  made  him 
alway  turn  for  comfort  to  the  prospect  of  that  better  state 
of  existence  in  which  they  should  once  more  all  be  gathered 

*  Isaac  Comnenus. 


216  ROBERT    SOUTHEY. 

together,  and  where  there  would  be  neither  change  nor  part- 
ing. His  thoughts  often  fell  into  this  train,  when  on  sum- 
mer evenings  he  was  taking  a  solitary  pipe  in  his  arbor, 
with  the  church  in  sight,  and  the  churchyard  wherein,  at  no 
distant  time,  he  was  to  be  laid  in  his  last  abode.  Such 
musings  induced  a  sense  of  sober  piety,  —  of  thankfulness 
for  former  blessings,  contentment  with  the  present,  and 
humble  yet  sure  and  certain  hope  for  futurity,  which  might 
vainly  have  been  sought  at  prayer-meetings  or  evening  lec- 
tures, where  indeed  little  good  can  ever  be  obtained  with- 
out some  deleterious  admixture,  or  alloy  of  baser  feelings. 

The  happiness  which  he  had  found  in  retirement  was  of 
a  different  kind  from  what  he  had  contemplated;  for  the 
shades  of  evening  were  gathering  when  he  reached  the 
place  of  his  long  wished  for  rest,  and  the  picture  of  it  which 
had  imprinted  itself  on  his  imagination  was  a  morning 
view.  But  he  had  been  prepared  for  this  by  that  slow 
change,  of  which  we  are  not  aware  during  its  progress  till 
we  see  it  reflected  in  others,  and  are  thus  made  conscious 
of  it  in  ourselves  ;  and  he  found  a  satisfaction  in  the  station 
which  he  occupied  there,  too  worthy  in  its  nature  to  be 
called  pride,  and  which  had  not  entered  into  his  anticipa- 
tions. It  is  said  to  have  been  a  saying  of  George  the 
Third,  that  the  happiest  condition  in  which  an  English- 
man could  be  placed,  was  just  below  that  wherein  it  would 
have  been  necessary  for  him  to  act  as  a  Justice  of  the  Peace, 
and  above  that  which  would  have  rendered  him  liable  to 
parochial  duties.  This  was  just  Mr.  Allison's  position ; 
there  wras  nothing  which  brought  him  into  rivalry  or  com- 
petition with  the  surrounding  Squirarchy,  and  the  yeomen 
and  peasantry  respected  him  for  his  own  character,  as  well 
as  for  his  name's  sake.  He  gave  employment  to  more  per- 
sons than  when  he  was  engaged  in  trade,  and  his  indirect 
influence  over  them  was  greater ;  that  of  his  sister  was  still 
more.  The  elders  of  the  village  remembered  her  in  her 


A  LOVE  STORY.  217 

youth,  and  1  )ved  her  for  what  she  then  had  been,  as  well  as 
for  what  she  now  was  ;  the  young  looked  up  to  her  as  the 
Lady  Bountiful,  to  whom  no  one  that  needed  advice  or 
assistance  ever  applied  in  vain.  She  it  was  who  provided 
those  much  approved  plum-cakes,  not  the  less  savory  for 
being  both  homely  and  wholesome,  the  thought  of  which 
induced  the  children  to  look  on  to  their  Lent  examination 
with  hope,  and  prepare  for  it  with  alacrity.  Those  offices  in 
a  parish  which  are  the  province  of  the  Clergyman's  wife, 
when  he  has  made  choice  of  one  who  knows  her  duty,  and 
has  both  will  and  ability  to  discharge  it,  Miss  Allison  per- 
formed ;  and  she  rendered  Mr.  Bacon  the  farther,  and  to  him 
individually  the  greater,  service  of  imparting  to  his  daughter 
those  instructions  which  she  had  no  mother  to  impart. 
Deborah  could  not  have  had  a  better  teacher ;  but  as  the 
present  chapter  has  extended  to  a  sufficient  length, 

Diremo  U  resto  in  qud  che  vien  dipoi, 
Per  non  venire  a  noja  a  me  e  voi.* 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

A   FEW    PARTICULARS    CONCERNING    NO.  113   BISHOPSGATB    STREET 
WITHIN  J     AND    OF    THE    FAMILY    AT    THAXTED    GRANGE. 

Opinion  is  the  rate  of  things, 

From  hence  our  peace  doth  flow 
I  have  a  better  fate  than  kings, 

Because  I  think  it  so. 

KATHARINE  PHILIPS. 

THE  house  wherein  Mr.  Allison  realized  by  fair  dealing 
and  frugality  the  modest  fortune  which  enabled  him  to  re- 
purchase the  homestead  of  his  fathers,  is  still  a  Tobacco- 
nist's, and  has  continued  to  be  so  from  "  the  palmy  days " 

*  Orlando  Innamorato. 


218  ROBERT    SOUTHEY. 

of  that  trade,  when  King  James  vainly  endeavored,  by  the 
expression  of  his  royal  dislike,  to  discountenance  the  newly- 
imported  practice  of  smoking ;  and  Joshua  Sylvester  thun- 
dered from  Mount  Helicon  a  Volley  of  Holy  Shot,  thinking 
that  thereby  "  Tobacco  "  should  be  "  battered,  and  the  Pipes 
shattered,  about  their  ears  that  idly  idolize  so  base  and  bar- 
barous a  weed,  or  at  least-wise  overlove  so  loathsome  van- 
ity." *  For  he  said,— 

If  there  be  any  Herb  in  any  place 

Most  opposite  to  God's  good  Herb  of  Grace, 

'T  is  doubtless  this  ;  and  this  doth  plainly  prove  it, 

That  for  the  most,  most  graceless  men  do  love  it. 

Yet  it  was  not  long  before  the  dead  and  unsavory  odor  of 
that  weed,  to  which  a  Parisian  was  made  to  say  that  "  sea- 
coal  smoke  seemed  a  very  Portugal  perfume,"  prevailed  as 
much  in  the  raiment  of  the  more  coarsely  clad  part  of  the 
community,  as  the  scent  of  lavender  among  those  who  were 
clothed  in  fine  linen,  and  fared  sumptuously  every  day :  and 
it  had  grown  so  much  in  fashion,  that  it  was  said  children 
"  began  to  play  with  broken  pipes,  instead  of  corals,  to  make 
way  for  their  teeth." 

Louis  XIV.  endeavored  just  as  ineffectually  to  discourage 
the  use  of  snuff-taking.  His  valets  de  chambre  were  obliged 
to  renounce  it  when  they  were  appointed  to  their  office ; 
and  the  Duke  of  Harcourt  was  supposed  to  have  died  of 
apoplexy  in  consequence  of  having,  to  please  his  Majesty, 
left  off  at  once  a  habit  which  he  had  carried  to  excess. 

I  know  not  through  what  intermediate  hands  the  business 
at  No.  113  has  passed,  since  the  name  of  Allison  was  with- 
drawn from  the  firm ;  nor  whether  Mr.  Evans,  by  whom  it 
is  now  carried  on  there,  is  in  any  way  related  by  descent 
with  that  family.  Matters  of  no  greater  importance  to  most 

*  Old  Burton's  was  a  modified  opinion.  See  Anatomic  of  Melan- 
choly, Part  ii.  §  2,  mem.  2,  subs.  2. 


A  LOVE   STORY.  219 

men  have  been  made  the  subject  of  much  antiquarian  in- 
vestigation ;  and  they  who  busy  themselves  in  such  inves- 
tigations must  not  be  said  to  be  ill-employed,  for  they  find 
harmless  amusement  in  the  pursuit,  and  sometimes  put  up  a 
chance  truth  of  which  others,  soon  or  late,  discover  the  ap- 
plication. The  house  has  at  this  time  a  more  antiquated 
appearance  than  any  other  in  that  part  of  the  street,  though 
it  was  modernized  some  forty  or  fifty  years  after  Mr.  Ba- 
con's friend  left  it.  The  first  floor  then  projected  several 
feet  farther  over  the  street  than  at  present,  and  the  second 
several  feet  farther  over  the  first ;  and  the  windows,  which 
still  extend  the  whole  breadth  of  the  front,  were  then  com- 
posed of  small  casement  panes.  But  in  the  progress  of 
those  improvements  which  are  now  carrying  on  in  the  city 
with  as  much  spirit  as  at  the  western  end  of  the  metropolis, 
and  which  have  almost  reached  Mr.  Evans's  door,  it  cannot 
be  long  before  the  house  will  be  either  wholly  removed,  or 
so  altered  as  no  longer  to  be  recognized. 

The  present  race  of  Londoners  little  know  what  the 
appearance  of  the  city  was  a  century  ago  ;  —  their  own  city, 
I  was  about  to  have  said  ;  but  it  was  the  city  of  their  great- 
grandfathers, not  theirs,  from  which  the  elder  Allisons  re- 
tired in  the  year  1746.  At  that  time  the  kennels  (as  in 
Paris)  were  in  the  middle  of  the  street,  and  there  were 
no  footpaths ;  spouts  projected  the  rain-water  in  streams, 
against  which  umbrellas,  if  umbrellas  had  been  then  in  use, 
could  have  afforded  no  defence ;  and  large  signs,  such  as  are 
now  only  to  be  seen  at  country  inns,  were  suspended  before 
every  shop,*  from  posts  which  impeded  the  way,  or  from 
iron  supports  strongly  fixed  into  the  front  of  the  house. 
The  swinging  of  one  of  these  broad  signs  in  a  high  wind, 
and  the  weight  of  the  iron  on  which  it  acted,  sometimes 

*  The  counting  of  these  signs  "  from  Temple  Bar,  the  furthest 
Conduit  in  Cheapside,"  &c.,  is  quoted  as  a  remarkable  instance  of 
Fuller's  Memory.  Life,  &c.,  p.  76,  ed.  1662. 


220  ROBERT   SOUTHEY. 

brought  the  wall  down ;  and  it  is  recorded  that  one  front- 
fall  of  this  kind  in  Fleet  Street  maimed  several  per.-ons, 
and  killed  "  two  young  ladies,  a  cobbler,  and  the  King's 
jeweller." 

The  sign  at  No.  113  was  an  Indian  Chief  smoking  the 
calumet.  Mr.  Allison  had  found  it  there;  and  when  it 
became  necessary  that  a  new  one  should  be  substituted,  he 
retained  the  same  figure,  —  though,  if  he  had  been  to 
choose,  he  would  have  greatly  preferred  the  head  of  Sir 
Walter  Raleigh,  by  whom,  according  to  the  common  belief, 
he  supposed  tobacco  had  been  introduced  into  this  country. 
The  Water-Poet  imputed  it  to  the  Devil  himself,  and  pub- 
lished 

A  Proclamation, 

Or  Approbation, 
From  the  King  of  Execration 

To  every  Nation, 
For  Tobacco's  propagation. 

Mr.  Allison  used  to  shake  his  head  at  such  libellous  asper- 
sions. Raleigh  was  a  great  favorite  with  him,  and  held, 
indeed,  in  especial  respect,  though  not  as  the  Patron  of  his 
old  trade,  as  St.  Crispin  is  of  the  Gentle  Craft,  yet  as  the 
founder  of  his  fortune.  He  thought  it  proper,  therefore, 
that  he  should  possess  Sir  Walter's  History  of  the  World, 
though  he  had  never  found  inclination,  or  summoned  up 
resolution,  to  undertake  its  perusal. 

Common  sense  has  been  defined  by  Sir  Egerton  Brydges, 
"  to  mean  nothing  more  than  an  uneducated  judgment,  aris- 
ing from  a  plain  and  coarse  understanding  exercised  upon 
common  concerns,  and  rendered  effective  rather  by  experi- 
ence, than  by  any  regular  process  of  the  intellectual  powers. 
If  this,"  he  adds,  "  be  the  proper  meaning  of  that  quality, 
we  cannot  wonder  that  books  are  little  fitted  for  its  culti- 
vation." Except  that  there  was  no  coarseness  in  his  nature, 
this  would  apply  to  Mr  Allison.  He  had  been  bred  up  with 


A   LOVE   STORY.  221 

the  notion,  that  it  behoved  him  to  attend  to  his  business, 
and  that  reading  formed  no  part  of  it.  Nevertheless  he  had 
acquired  some  liking  for  books,  by  looking  casually  now  and 
then  over  the  leaves  of  those  unfortunate  volumes  with 
which  the  shop  was  continually  supplied  for  its  daily  con- 
sumption. 

Many  a  load  of  criticism, 
Elaborate  products  of  the  midnight  toil 
Of  Belgian  brains,* 

went  there ;  and  many  a  tome  of  old  law,  old  physic,  and 
old  divinity ;  old  history  as  well ;  books  of  which  many 
were  at  all  times  rubbish  ;  some  which,  though  little  better, 
would  now  sell  for  more  shillings  by  the  page  than  they 
then  cost  pence  by  the  pound ;  and  others,  the  real  value 
of  which  is  perhaps  as  little  known  now,  as  it  was  then. 
Such  of  these  as  in  latter  years  caught  his  attention,  he  now 
and  then  rescued  from  the  remorseless  use  to  which  they 
had  been  condemned.  They  made  a  curious  assortment 
with  his  wife's  books  of  devotion  or  amusement  where- 
with she  had  sometimes  beguiled,  and  sometimes  soothed, 
the  weary  hours  of  long  and  frequent  illness.  Among 
the  former  were  Scott's  "  Christian  Life,"  Bishop  Bayly's 
"  Practice  of  Piety,"  Bishop  Taylor's  "  Holy  Living  and 
Dying,"  Drelincourt  on  Death,  with  De  Foe's  lying  story 
of  Mrs.  Veal's  ghost  as  a  puff  preliminary,  and  the  Night 
Thoughts.  Among  the  latter  were  Cassandra,  the  Guard- 
ian and  Spectator,  Mrs.  Howe's  Letters,  Richardson's  Nov- 
els, and  Pomfret's  Poems. 

Mrs.  Allison  had  been  able  to  do  little  for  her  daughter 
of  that  little,  which,  if  her  state  of  health  and  spirits  had 
permitted,  she  might  .have  done ;  this,  therefore,  as  well  as 
the  more  active  duties  of  the  household,  devolved  upon  Eliz- 
abeth, who  was  of  a  better  constitution  in  mind  as  well 

*  Akenside. 


222  ROBERT    SOUTHET. 

as  body  Elizabeth,  before  she  went  to  reside  with  her 
brother,  had  acquired  all  the  accomplishments  which  a 
domestic  education  in  the  country  could  in  those  days 
impart.  Her  book  of  receipts,  culinary  and  medical,  might 

vied  with  the  "  Queen's  Cabinet  Unlocked."  The 
spelling  indeed  was  such  as  ladies  used  in  the  reign  of 
Queen  Anne,  and  in  the  old  time  before  her,  when  every 

•elt  as  she  thought  fit ;  but  it  was  written  in  a  well- 
proportioned  Italian  hand,  with  fine  down-strokes  and  broad 
up-ones,  equally  distinct  and  beautiful.  Her  speech  was 
good  Yorkshire,  that  is  to  say,  good  provincial  English,  not 
the  worse  for  being  provincial,  and  a  little  softened  by  five- 
and-twenty  years'  residence  in  London.  Some  sisters,  who 
in  those  days  kept  a  boarding-school  of  the  first  repute,  in 
one  of  the  midland  counties,  used  to  say,  when  they  spoke 
of  an  old  pupil,  u  her  irent  to  school  to  we."  Miss  Allison's 
language  was  not  of  this  kind.  —  it  savored  of  rusticity,  not 
of  ignorance ;  and  where  it  was  peculiar,  as  in  the  metrop- 
olis, it  gave  raciness  to  the  conversation  of  an  agreeable 
woman. 

She  had  been  well  instructed  in  ornamental  work  as  well 
as  ornamental  penmanship.  Unlike  most  fashions,  this  had 
continued  to  be  in  fashion  because  it  continued  to  be  of  use  ; 
though  no  doubt  some  of  the  varieties  which  Taylor,  the 
"Water-Poet,  enumerates  in  his  praise  of  the  Xeedle,  might 
have  been  then  as  little  understood  as  now  :  — 

Tent-work,  Raised-work,  Laid-work,  Prest-work,  Net-work, 
Most  carious  Pearl,  or  rare  Italian  Cut-work, 
Fine  Fern-stitch,  Finny-stitch,  New-stitch  and  Chain-stitch, 
Brave  Bred-stitch,  Fisher-stitch,  Irish-stitch  and  Queen-stitch, 
The  Spanish-stitch,  Rosemary-stitch  and  Maw-stitch, 
The  smarting  Whip-stitch.  Back-stitch  and  the  Cross-stitch 
All  these  are  good,  and  these  we  must  allow ; 
are  everywhere  in  practice  now. 


There  was  a  book  published  in  the  Water-Poet's  days, 


A   LOVE   STORY.  22? 

with  the  title  of  "  School  House  for  the  Needle " ;  it  con- 
sisted of  two  volumes  in  oblong  quarto,  that  form  being 
suited  to  it3  plates  "  of  sundry  sorts  of  patterns  and  exam- 
ples "  ;  and  it  contained  a  "  Dialogue  in  Verse  between 
Diligence  and  Sloth."  If  Betsey  Allison  had  studied  in 
this  "  School  House,'*  she  could  not  have  been  a  greater 
proficient  with  the  needle  than  she  became  under  her 
Aunt's  teaching:  nor  would  she  have  been  more 

versed  in  the  arts 
Of  pies,  puddings,  and  tarts,* 

if  she  had  gone  through  a  course  of  practical  lessons  in  one 
of  the  Pastry  Schools  which  are  common  in  Scotland,  but 
were  tried  without  success  in  London,  about  the  middle  of 
the  last  century.  Deborah  partook  of  these  instructions  at 
her  father's  desire.  In  all  that  related  to  the  delicacies  of 
a  country  table,  she  was  glad  to  be  instructed,  because  it 
enabled  her  to  assist  her  friend ;  but  it  appeared  strange  to 
her  that  Mr.  Bacon  should  wish  her  to  learn  ornamental 
work,  for  rthich  -she  neither  had,  nor  could  forsee  any  use. 
But  if  the  employment  had  been  less  agreeable  than  she 
found  it  in  such  company,  she  would  never  have  disputed, 
nor  questioned  his  will. 

For  so  small  a  household,  a  more  active  or  cheerful 
one  could  nowhere  have  been,  found  than  at  the  Grange. 
Ben  Jonson  reckoned  among  the  happinesses  of  Sir  Robert 
Wroth  that  of  being  "  with  unbought  provision  blest."  This 
blessing  Mr.  Allison  enjoyed  in  as  great  a  degree  as  his 
position  in  life  permitted ;  he  neither  killed  his  own  meat 
nor  grew  bis  own  corn ;  but  he  had  his  poultry-yard,  his 
garden  and  his  orchard ;  he  baked  his  own  bread,  brewed 
his  own  beer,  and  was  supplied  with  milk,  cream,  and  butter 
from  his  own  dairy.  It  is  a  fact  not  unworthy  of  notice, 
%hat  the  most  intelligent  farmers  in  the  neighboihood  of 
V<ondon  are  persons  who  have  taken  to  (arming  as  a  busi- 

»  T.  Warton. 


224  ROBERT  SOUTHEY. 

ness,  because  of  their  strong  inclination  for  rural  employ- 
ments ;  one  of  the  very  best  in  Middlesex,  when  the  Survey 
of  that  County  was  published  by  the  Board  of  Agriculture, 
had  been  a  tailor.  Mr.  Allison  did  not  attempt  to  manage 
the  land  which  he  kept  in  his  own  hands ;  but  he  had  a 
trusty  bailiff,  and  soon  acquired  knowledge  enough  for 
superintending  what  was  done.  When  he  retired  from 
trade  he  gave  over  all  desire  for  gain,  which  indeed  he  had 
never  desired  for  his  own  sake  ;  he  sought  now  only  whole- 
some occupation,  and  those  comforts  which  may  be  said  to 
have  a  moral  zest.  They  might  be  called  luxuries,  if  that 
word  could  be  used  in  a  virtuous  sense  without  something 
so  to  qualify  it.  It  is  a  curious  instance  of  the  modification 
which  words  undergo  in  different  countries,  that  luxury  has 
always  a  sinful  acceptation  in  the  southern  languages  of 
Europe,  and  lust  an  innocent  one  in  the  northern  ;  the 
harmless  meaning  of  the  latter  word,  we  have  retained  in 
the  verb  to  list. 

Every  one  who  looks  back  upon  the  scenes  of  his  youth, 
has  one  spot  upon  which  the  last  light  of  the  evening  sun- 
shine rests.  The  Grange  was  that  spot  in  Deborah's  ret- 
rospect. 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

A  REMARKABLE  EXAMPLE,  SHOWING  THAT  A  WISE  MAN,  WHEN  HB 
RISES  IN  THE  MORNING,  LITTLE  KNOWS  WHAT  HE  MAY  DO  BE- 
FORE NIGHT. 

Now  I  love, 

And  so  as  in  so  short  a  time  I  may, 
Yet  so  as  time  shall  never  break  that  so, 
And  therefore  so  accept  of  Elinor. 

ROBERT  GREENE. 

ONE  summer  evening  the  Doctor,  on  his  way  back  from  a 
visit  in  that  direction,  stopped,  as  on  such  opportunities  he 
usually  did,  at  Mr.  Bacon's  wicket,  and  looked  in  at  the 


A    LOVE   STORY.  225 

open  casement  to  see  if  his  friends  were  within.  Mr.  Bacon 
was  sitting  there  alone,  with  a  book  open  on  the  table  before 
him;  and  looking  round  when  he  heard  the  horse  stop, 
"  Come  in,  Doctor,"  said  he,  "  if  you  have  a  few  minutes  to 
spare.  You  were  never  more  welcome." 

The  Doctor  replied,  "  I  hope  nothing  ails  either  Deborah 
or  yourself?  " 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Bacon,  "  God  be  thanked !  but  something 
has  occurred  which  concerns  both." 

"When  the  Doctor  entered  the  room,  he  perceived  that  the 
wonted  serenity  of  his  friend's  countenance  was  overcast  by 
a  shade  of  melancholy  thought.  "Nothing,"  said  he,  "I 
hope,  has  happened  to  distress  you?" 

"  Only  to  disturb  us,"  was  the  reply.  "  Most  people  would 
probably  think  that  we  ought  to  consider  it  a  piece  of  good 
fortune.  One  who  would  be  thought  a  good  match  for  her, 
has  proposed  to  marry  Deborah." 

"  Indeed  ! "  said  the  Doctor ;  "  and  who  is  he  ?  "  feeling, 
as  he  asked  the  question,  an  unusual  warmth  in  his  face. 

"Joseph  Hebblethwaite,  of  the  Willows.  He  broke  his 
mind  to  me  this  morning,  saying  that  he  thought  it  best  to 
speak  with  me  before  he  made  any  advances  himself  to  the 
young  woman:  indeed  he  had  had  no  opportunity  of  so 
doing,  for  he  had  seen  little  of  her ;  but  he  had  heard  enough 
of  her" character  to  believe  that  she  would  make  him  a  good 
wife ;  and  this,  he  said,  was  all  he  looked  for,  for  he  was 
well  to  do  in  the  world." 

"And  what  answer  did  you  make  to  this  matter-of-fact 
way  of  proceeding?" 

"  I  told  him  that  I  commended  the  very  proper  course  he 
had  taken,  and  that  I  was  obliged  to  him  for  the  good  opinion 
of  my  daughter  which  he  was  pleased  to  entertain :  that 
marriage  was  an  affair  in  which  I  should  never  attempt  to 
direct  her  inclinations,  being  confident  that  she  would  never 
give  me  cause  to  oppose  them ;  and  that  I  would  talk  with 
10*  o 


226  ROBERT    SOUTHEY. 

her  upon  the  proposal,  and  let  him  know  the  result.  Aa 
soon  as  I  mentioned  it  to  Deborah,  she  colored  up  to  her 
eyes ;  and  with  an  angry  look,  of  which  I  did  not  think  those 
eyes  had  been  capable,  she  desired  me  to  tell  him  that  he 
had  better  lose  no  time  in  looking  elsewhere,  for  his  thinking 
of  her  was  of  no  use.  4  Do  you  know  any  ill  of  him  ?'  said 
I.  '  No,'  she  replied,  '  but  I  never  heard  any  good,  and 
tha*  's  ill  enough.  And  I  do  not  like  his  looks.'  " 

"  Well  said,  Deborah ! "  cried  the  Doctor :  clapping  his 
hands  so  as  to  produce  a  sonorous  token  of  satisfaction. 

" '  Surely,  my  child,'  said  I, '  he  is  not  an  ill-looking  per- 
son ? '  *  Father,'  she  replied,  4  you  know  he  looks  as  if  he 
had  not  one  idea  in  his  head  to  keep  company  with  an- 
other.' " 

"  Well  said,  Deborah  ! "  repeated  the  Doctor. 

"  Why,  Doctor,  do  you  know  any  ill  of  him  ?  " 

"  None.  But,  as  Deborah  says,  I  know  no  good  ;  and  if 
there  had  been  any  good  to  be  known,  it  must  have  come 
within  my  knowledge.  I  cannot  help  knowing  who  the  per- 
sons are  to  whom  the  peasantry  in  my  rounds  look  with  re- 
spect and  good-will,  and  whom  they  consider  their  friends 
as  well  as  their  betters.  And,  in  like  manner,  I  know  who 
they  are  from  whom  they  never  expect  either  courtesy  or 
kindness." 

"  You  are  right,  my  friend ;  and  Deborah  is  right.  Her 
answer  came  from  a  wise  heart;  and  I  was  not  sorry  that 
her  determination  was  so  promptly  made,  and  so  resolutely 
pronounced.  But  I  wish,  if  it  had  pleased  God,  the  offer 
had  been  one  which  she  could  have  accepted  with  her  own 
willing  consent,  and  with  my  full  approbation." 

"  Yet,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  I  have  often  thought  how  sad 
a  thing  it  -would  be  for  you  ever  to  part  with  her." 

"  Far  more  sad  will  it  be  for  me  to  leave  her  unprotected 
as  it  is  but  too  likely  that,  in  the  ordinary  course  of  nature 
I  one  day  shall;  and  as  any  day  in  that  same  ordinary 


A   LOVE   STORY.  227 

course,  I  so  possibly  may  !  Our  best  intentions,  even  when 
they  have  been  most  prudentially  formed,  fail  often  in  their 
issue.  I  meant  to  train  up  Deborah  in  the  way  she  should 
go,  by  fitting  her  for  that  state  of  life  in  which  it  had  pleased 
God  to  place  her ;  so  that  she  might  have  made  a  good  wife 
for  some  honest  man  in  the  humbler  walks  of  life,  and  have 
been  happy  with  him." 

"  And  how  was  it  possible,"  replied  the  Doctor,  "  that  you 
could  have  succeeded  better  ?  Is  she  not  qualified  to  be  a 
good  man's  wife  in  any  rank  ?  Her  manner  would  not  do 
discredit  to  a  mansion ;  her  management  would  make  a  farm 
prosperous,  or  a  cottage  comfortable ;  and  for  her  principles, 
and  temper  and  cheerfulness,  they  would  render  any  home 
a  happy  one." 

"  You  have  not  spoken  too  highly  in  her  praise,  Doctor. 
But  as  she  has  from  her  childhood  been  all  in  all  to  me, 
there  is  a  danger  that  I  may  have  become  too  much  so  to 
her ;  and  that,  while  her  habits  have  properly  been  made 
conformable  to  our  poor  means  and  her  poor  prospects,  she 
has  been  accustomed  to  a  way  of  thinking,  and  a  kind  of 
conversation,  which  have  given  her  a  distaste  for  those 
whose  talk  is  only  of  sheep  and  of  oxen,  and  whose  thoughts 
never  get  beyond  the  range  of  their  every  day  employments. 
In  her  present  cirde,  I  do  not  think  there  is  one  man  with 
whom  she  might  otherwise  have  had  a  chance  of  settling  in 
life,  to  whom  she  would  not  have  the  same  intellectual  ob- 
jections as  to  Joseph  Hebblethwaite :  though  I  am  glad  tl.it 
the  moral  objection  was  that  which  first  instinctively  oc- 
curred to  her. 

"I  wish  it  were  otherwise,  both  for  her  sake  and  my 
own :  for  hers,  because  the  present  separation  would  have 
more  than  enough  to  compensate  it,  and  would  in  its  con- 
sequences mitigate  the  evil  of  the  final  one,  whenever  that 
may  be  ;  for  my  own,  because  I  should  then  have  no  cause 
whatever  to  render  the  prospect  of  dissolution  otherwise 


228  ROBERT    SOUTHEY. 

than  welcome,  but  be  as  willing  to  die  as  to  sleep.  It  ij 
not  owing  to  any  distrust  in  Providence,  that  I  am  not  thus 
willing  now,  —  God  forbid !  But  if  I  gave  heed  to  my  own 
feelings,  I  should  think  that  I  am  not  long  for  this  world ; 
and  surely  it  were  wise  to  remove,  if  possible,  the  only  cause 
that  makes  me  fear  to  think  so." 

"  Are  you  sensible  of  any  symptoms  that  can  lead  to  such 
an  apprehension  ?  "  said  the  Doctor. 

"  Of  nothing  that  can  be  called  a  symptom.  I  am  to  all 
appearance  in  good  health,  of  sound  body  and  mind  ;  and 
you  know  how  unlikely  my  habits  are  to  occasion  any  dis- 
turbance in  either.  But  I  have  indefinable  impressions,  — 
sensations  they  might  almost  be  called,  —  which,  as  I  can- 
not but  feel  them,  so  I  cannot  but  regard  them." 

"  Can  you  not  describe  these  sensations  ? " 

"  No  better  than  by  saying,  that  they  hardly  amount  to 
sensations,  and  are  indescribable." 

"  Do  not,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  I  entreat  you,  give  way  to 
any  feelings  of  this  kind.  They  may  lead  to  consequences 
which,  without  shortening  or  endangering  life,  would  render 
it  anxious  and  burdensome,  and  destroy  both  your  useful- 
ness and  your  comfort." 

"I  have  this  feeling,  Doctor;  and.  you  shall  prescribe  for 
it,  if  you  think  it  requires  either  regimen  or  physic.  But  at 
present  yon  will  do  me  more  good  by  assisting  me  to  pro- 
cure for  Deborah  such  a  situation  as  she  must  necessarily 
look  for  on  the  event  of  my  death.  What  I  have  laid  by, 
even  if  it  should  be  most  advantageously  disposed  of,  would 
afford  her  only  a  bare  subsistence ;  it  is  a  resource  in  case 
of  sickness,  but  while  in  health,  it  would  never  be  her  wish 
to  eat  the  bread  of  idleness.  You  may  have  opportunities 
of  learning  whether  any  lady  within  the  circle  of  your  prac- 
tice wants  a  young  person  in  whom  she  might  confide,  either 
as  an  attendant  upon  herself,  or  to  assist  in  the  management 
of  her  children,  or  her  household.  You  may  be  sure  this  is 


A  LOVE  STORY.  229 

not  the  first  time  that  I  have  thought  upon  the  subject ;  but 
the  circumstance  which  has  this  day  occurred,  and  the  feel- 
ing of  which  I  have  spoken,  have  pressed  it  upon  my  con- 
sideration. And  the  inquiry  may  better  be  made,  and  the 
step  taken  while  it  is  a  matter  of  foresight,  than  when  it  has 
become  one  of  necessity." 

"  Let  me  feel  your  pulse !  " 

u  You  will  detect  no  other  disorder  there,"  said  Mr.  Bacon, 
holding  out  his  arm  as  he  spake,  "  than  what  has  been  caused 
by  this  conversation,  and  the  declaration  of  a  purpose,  which, 
though  for  some  time  perpended,  I  had  never  till  now  fully 
acknowledged  to  myself." 

"  You  have  never  then  mentioned  it  to  Deborah  ?  " 

"  In  no  other  way  than  by  sometimes  incidentally  speak 
ing  of  the  way  of  life  which  would  be  open  to  her,  in  case 
.  of  her  being  unmarried  at  my  death." 

"  And  you  have  made  up  your  mind  to  part  with 
her?" 

"  Upon  a  clear  conviction  that  I  ought  to  do  so ;  that  it  is 
best  for  herself  and  me." 

"Well,  then,  you  will  allow  me  to  converse  with  her 
first  upon  a  different  subject.  —  You  will  permit  me  to  see 
whether  I  can  speak  more  successfully  for  myself,  than  you 
have  done  for  Joseph  Hebblethwaite.  —  Have  I  your  con- 
Bent  ?" 

Mr.  Bacon  rose  in  great  emotion,  and  taking  his  friend's 
hand,  pressed  it  fervently  and  tremulously.  Presently  they 
heard  the  wicket  open,  and  Deborah  came  in. 

"  I  dare  say,  Deborah,"  said  her  father,  composing  himself, 
"  you  have  been  telling  Betsey  Allison  of  the  advantageous 
offer  that  you  have  this  day  refused." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Deborah ;  "  and  what  do  you  think  she 
said?  That  little  as  she  likes  him,  rather  than  that  I 
should  be  thrown  away  upon  such  a  man,  she  could  almost 
make  up  her  mind  to  marry  him  herself." 


230  ROBERT   SOUTHEY. 

"  And  I,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  rather  than  such  a  man  should 
have  you,  would  marry  you  myself." 

"  Was  not  I  right  in  refusing  him,  Doctor  ?  " 

"  So  right,  that  you  never  pleased  me  so  well  before  ;  and 
never  can  please  me  better,  —  unless  you  will  accept  of  me 
in  his  stead." 

She  gave  a  little  start,  and  looked  at  him  half  incredu- 
lously, and  half  angrily  withal ;  as  if  what  he  had  said  was 
too  light  in  its  manner  to  be  serious,  and  yet  too  serious  in 
its  import  to  be  spoken  in  jest.  But  when  he  took  her  by 
the  hand,  and  said,  "  Will  you,  dear  Deborah  ?  "  with  a  pres- 
sure, and  in  a  tone  that  left  no  doubt  of  his  earnest  meaning, 
she  cried,  "  Father,  what  am  I  to  say  ?  speak  for  me ! "  — 
"  Take  her,  my  friend !  "  said  Mr.  Bacon.  "  My  blessing  be 
upon  you  both.  And,  if  it  be  not  presumptuous  to  use  the 
words,  —  let  me  say  for  myself,  *  Lord,  now  lettest  thou  thy 
servant  depart  in  peace ! ' " 

CHAPTER    XV. 

THE    WEDDING    PEAL   AT    ST.    GEORGE'S,    AND  THE  BRIDE'g 
APPEARANCE    AT    CHURCH. 

IN  the  month  of  April,  1761,  the  Doctor  brought  home 
his  bride  to  Doncaster.  Many  eyes  were  turned  upon  her 
when  she  made  her  appearance  at  St.  George's  Church. 
The  novelty  of  the  place  made  her  less  regardful  of  this 
than  she  might  otherwise  have  been.  Hollis  Pigot,  who 
held  the  vicarage  of  Doncaster  thirty  years,  and  was  then 
in  the  last  year  of  his  incumbency  and  his  life,  performed 
the  service  that  day.  I  know  not  among  what  description 
of  preachers  he  was  to  be  classed  ;  whether  with  those  who 
obtain  attention,  and  command  respect,  and  win  confidence, 
and  strengthen  belief,  and  inspire  hope,  or  with  the  far  more 
numerous  race  of  Spintexts  and  of  Martexts.  But  if  he 


A   LOVE  STORY.  231 

had  preached  that  morning  with  the  tongue  of  an  angel, 
the  bride  would  have  had  no  ears  for  him.  Her  thoughts 
were  neither  upon  those  who  on  their  way  from  church 
would  talk  over  her  instead  of  the  sermon,  nor  of  the  ser- 
vice, nor  of  her  husband,  nor  of  herself  in  her  new  charac- 
ter, but  of  her  father,  —  and  with  a  feeling  which  might 
almost  be  called  funereal,  that  she  had  passed  from  under 
his  pastoral  as  well  as  his  paternal  care. 


CHAPTER   XVI. 

SOMETHING   SERIOUS. 

If  thou  hast  read  all  this  book,  and  art  never  the  better,  yet  catch  thia 
flower  before  thou  go  out  of  the  garden,  and  peradventure  the  scent 
thereof  will  bring  thee  back  to  smell  the  rest 

HEXKY  SMITH. 

DEBORAH  found  no  one  in  Doncaster  to  supply  the  place 
of  Betty  Allison  in  the  daily  intercourse  of  familiar  and 
perfect  friendship.  That  indeed  was  impossible ;  no  after- 
math has  the  fragrance  and  the  sweetness  of  the  first  crop. 
But  why  do  I  call  her  Deborah?  She  had  never  been 
known  by  that  name  to  her  new  neighbors ;  and  to  her  very 
father  she  was  now  spoken  of  as  Mrs.  Dove.  Even  the 
Allisons  called  her  so  in  courteous  and  customary  usage,  but 
not  without  a  melancholy  reflection,  that  when  Deborah 
Bacon  became  Mrs.  Dove,  she  was  in  a  great  measure  lost 
to  them. 

friendship,  although  it  ceases  not 
In  marriage,  is  yet  at  less  command 
Than  when  a  single  freedom  can  dispose  it.* 

Doncaster  has  less  of  the  Rus  in  Urbe  now  than  it  had  in 
those  days,  and  than  Bath  had  when  those  words  were 

»Ford. 


232  ROBERT    SOUTIIEf. 

placed  over  the  door  of  a  lodging-house,  on  the  North 
Parade.  And  the  house  to  which  the  Doctor  brought  home 
his  bride,  had  less  of  it  than  when  Peter  Hopkins  set  up 
the  gilt  pestle  and  mortar  there  as  the  cognizance  of  his 
vocation.  It  had  no  longer  that  air  of  quiet  respectability 
which  belongs  to  such  a  dwelling  in  the  best  street  of  a 
small  country  town.  The  Mansion  House,  by  which  it  was 
dwarfed  and  inconvenienced  in  many  ways,  occasioned  a 
stir  and  bustle  about  it,  unlike  the  cheerful  business  of  a  mar- 
ket day.  The  back  windows,  however,  still  looked  to  the 
fields,  and  there  was  still  a  garden.  But  neither  fields  nor 
garden  could  prevail  over  the  odor  of  the  shop,  in  which,  like 

Hot,  cold,  moist  and  dry,  four  champions  fierce, 

in  Milton's  Chaos,  rhubarb  and  peppermint,  and  valerian,  and 
assafoetida,  "  strove  for  mastery,"  and  to  battle  brought  their 
atoms.  Happy  was  the  day  when  peppermint  predomi- 
nated; though  it  always  reminded  Mrs.  Dove  of  Thaxted 
Grange,  and  the  delight  with  which  she  used  to  assist  Miss 
Allison  in  her  distillations.  There  is  an  Arabian  proverb 
which  says,  "The  remembrance  of  youth  is  a  sigh." 
Southey  has  taken  it  for  the  text  of  one  of  those  juvenile 
poems  in  which  he  dwells  with  thoughtful  forefeeling  upon 
the  condition  of  declining  life. 

Miss  Allison  had  been  to  her,  not  indeed  as  a  mother,  but 
as  what  a  stepmother  is,  who  is  led  by  natural  benevolence 
ami  a  religious  sense  of  duty,  to  perform  as  far  as  possible 
a  mother's  part  to  her  husband's  children.  There  are  more 
such  stepmothers  than  the  world  is  willing  to  believe,  and 
they  have  their  reward  here  as  well  as  hereafter.  It  was 
impossible  that  any  new  friend  could  fill  up  her  place  in 
Mrs.  Dove's  affections,  —  impossible  that  she  could  ever  feel 
for  another  woman  the  respect,  and  reverence,  and  grati- 
tude, which  blended  with  her  love  for  this  excellent  person. 
Though  she  was  born  within  four  miles  of  Doncaster,  and 


A   LOVE  STORY.  233 

had  lived  till  her  marriage  in  the  humble  vicarage  in  which 
she  was  born,  she  had  never  passed  four-and-twenty  hours 
in  fhat  town  before  she  went  to  reside  there  ;  nor  had  she 
the  slightest  acquaintance  with  any  of  its  inhabitants,  except 
the  few  shopkeepers  with  whom  her  little  dealings  had  lain, 
and  the  occasional  visitants  whom  she  had  met  at  the 
Grange. 

An  Irish  officer  in  the  army,  happening  to  be  passenger 
in  an  armed  vessel  during  the  last  war,  used  frequently  to 
wish  that  they  might  fall  in  with  an  enemy's  ship,  because 
he  said,  he  had  been  in  many  land  battles,  and  there  was 
nothing  in  the  world  which  he  desired  more  than  to  see 
what  sort  of  a  thing  a  sea-fight  was.  He  had  his  wish, 
and  when  after  a  smart  action,  in  which  he  bore  his  part 
bravely,  an  enemy  of  superior  force  had  been  beaten  off, 
he  declared  with  the  customary  emphasis  of  an  Hibernian 
adjuration,  that  a  sea-fight  was  a  mighty  sairious  sort  of 
thing. 

The  Doctor  and  Deborah,  as  soon  as  they  were  be- 
trothed, had  come  to  just  the  same  conclusion  upon  a  very 
different  subject.  Till  the  day  of  their  engagement,  nay, 
till  the  hour  of  proposal  on  his  part,  and  the  very  instant 
of  acceptance  on  hers,  each  had  looked  upon  marriage, 
when  the  thought  of  it  occurred,  as  a  distant  possibility, 
more  or  less  desirable,  according  to  the  circumstances  which 
introduced  the  thought,  and  the  mood  in  which  it  was  enter- 
tained. And  when  it  was  spoken  of  sportively,  as  might 
happen,  in  relation  to  either  the  one  or  the  other,  it  was 
lightly  treated  as  a  subject  in  which  they  had  no  concern. 
But  from  the  time  of  their  engagement,  it  seemed  to  both 
the  most  serious  event  of  their  lives. 

In  the  Dutch  village  of  Broek,  concerning  which,  singu- 
lar as  the  habits  of  the  inhabitants  are,  travellers  have  re- 
lated more  peculiarities  than  ever  prevailed  there,  one 
remarkable  custom  shows  with  how  serious  a  mind  some  of 


234  ROBERT   SOUTHEY. 

the  Hollanders  regard  marriage.  The  great  house-door  is 
never  opened  but  when  the  master  of  the  house  brings 
home  his  bride  from  the  altar,  and  when  husband  "and 
wife  are  borne  out  to  the  grave.  Dr.  Dove  had  seen  that 
village  of  great  baby-houses  ;  but  though  much  attached 
to  Holland,  and  to  the  Dutch  as  a  people,  and  disposed  to 
think  that  we  might  learn  many  useful  lessons  from  our 
prudent  and  thrifty  neighbors,  he  thought  this  to  be  as  pre- 
posterous, if  not  as  shocking  a  custom,  as  it  would  be  to 
have  the  bell  toll  at  a  marriage,  and  to  wear  a  winding- 
sheet  for  a  wedding  garment. 

We  look  with  wonder  at  the  transformations  that  take 
place  in  insects,  and  yet  their  physical  metamorphoses  are 
not  greater  than  the  changes  which  we  ourselves  undergo 
morally  and  intellectually,  both  in  our  relations  to  others 
and  in  our  individual  nature.  Chaqtie  individu,  considers 
separement,  dijfere  encore  de  lui-meme  par  Fejfet  du  terns; 
il  devient  un  autre,  en  quelque  maniere,  aux  diverses  epoques 
de  sa  vie.  Uenfant,  fhomme  rait,  le  vieillard,  sont  comme 
autant  detrangers  unis  dans  une  seule  personne  par  le  lien 
mysterieux  du  souvenir.*  Of  all  changes  in  life,  marriage  is 
certainly  the  greatest,  and  though  less  change  in  every  re- 
spect can  very  rarely  be  produced  by  it  in  any  persons 
than  in  the  Doctor  and  his  wife,  it  was  very  great  to 
both.  On  his  part  it  was  altogether  an  increase  of  hap- 
piness; or  rather,  from  having  been  contented  in  his  sta- 
tion he  became  happy  in  it,  so  happy  as  to  be  exper- 
imentally convinced  that  there  can  be  no  "single  bless- 
edness" for  man.  There  were  some  drawbacks  on  her 
part, — in  the  removal  from  a  quiet  vicarage  to  a  busy 
street;  in  the  obstacle  which  four  miles  opposed  to  that 
daily  and  intimate  intercourse  with  her  friends  at  the 
Grange,  which  had  been  the  chief  delight  of  her  maiden 
life  ;  and  above  all,  in  the  separation  from  her  father,  —  for 

*  Necker 


A   LOVE   STORY.  235 

even  at  a  distance  which  may  appear  so  inconsiderable,  such 
it  was :  but  there  was  the  consolatory  reflection,  that  those 
dear  friends  and  that  dear  father  concurred  in  approving 
her  marriage,  and  in  rejoicing  in  it  for  her  sake ;  and  the 
experience  of  every  day  and  every  year  made  her  more  and 
more  thankful  for  her  lot.  In  the  full  liturgic  sense  of  the 
word,  he  worshipped  her,  that  is,  he  loved  and  cherished  and 
respected  and  honored  her;  and  she  would  have  obeyed 
him  cheerfully  as  well  as  dutifully,  if  obedience  could  have 
been  shown  where  there  was  ever  but  one  will. 


THE  MYSTIC  SUMMER 


BY   BAYARD   TAYLOR. 

TIS  not  the  dropping  of  the  flower, 
The  blush  of  fruit  upon  the  tree, 
Though  Summer  ripens,  hour  by  hour. 
The  garden's  sweet  maternity : 

'T  is  not  that  birds  have  ceased  to  build, 
And  wait  their  brood  with  tender  care ; 

That  corn  is  golden  in  the  field, 
And  clover  balm  is  in  the  air ;  — 

Not  these  the  season's  splendor  bring, 
And  crowd  with  life  the  happy  year, 

Nor  yet,  where  yonder  fountains  sing, 
The  blaze  of  sunshine,  hot  and  clear. 

In  thy  full  womb,  O  Summer !  lies 

A  secret  hope,  a  joy  unsung, 
Held  in  the  hush  of  these  calm  skies, 

And  trembling  on  the  forest's  tongue. 

The  lands  of  harvest  throb  anew 

In  shining  pulses,  far  away ; 
The  Night  distils  a  dearer  dew, 

And  sweeter  eyelids  has  the  Day. 


THE   MYSTIC   SUMMER.  237 

And  not  in  vain  the  peony  burns 

In  bursting  globes,  her  crimson  fire, 
Her  incense-dropping  ivory  urns 

The  lily  lifts  in  many  a  spire : 

And  not  in  vain  the  tulips  clash 

In  revelry  the  cups  they  hold 
Of  fiery  wine,  until  they  dash 

With  ruby  streaks  the  splendid  gold ! 

Send  down  your  roots  the  mystic  charm 
That  warms  and  flushes  all  your  flowers, 

And  with  the  summer's  touch  disarm 
The  thraldom  of  the  under  powers, 

Until,  in  caverns,  buried  deep, 

Strange  fragrance  reach  the  diamond's  home, 
And  murmurs  of  the  garden  sweep 

The  houses  of  the  frighted  gnome  ! 

For,  piercing  through  their  black  repose, 

And  shooting  up  beyond  the  sun, 
I  see  that  Tree  of  Life,  which  rose 

Before  the  eyes  of  Solomon  : 

Its  boughs,  that,  in  the  light  of  God, 

Their  bright,  innumerous  leaves  display,  — 

Whose  hum  of  life  is  borne  abroad 
By  winds  that  shake  the  dead  away. 

And,  trembling  on  a  branch  afar, 

The  topmost  nursling  of  the  skies, 
I  see  my  bud,  the  fairest  star 

That  ever  dawned  for  watching  eyes. 


238  BAYARD  TAYLOR. 

Unnoticed  on  the  boundless  tree, 
Its  fragrant  promise  fills  the  air; 

Its  little  bell  expands,  for  me, 
A  tent  of  silver,  lily-fair. 

All  life  to  that  one  centre  tends ; 

All  joy  and  beauty  thence  outflow ; 
Her  sweetest  gifts  the  summer  spends, 

To  teach  that  sweeter  bud  to  blow. 

So,  compassed  by  the  vision's  gleam, 
In  trembling  hope,  from  day  to  day, 

As  in  some  bright,  bewildering  dream, 
The  mystic  summer  wanes  away* 


TWO   OP  THE   OLD  MASTERS 

BY  MRS.  JAMESON. 


WITHIN  a  short  period  of  about  thirty  years,  that 
is,  between  1490  and  1520,  the  greatest  painters 
whom  the  world  has  yet  seen  were  living  and  working 
together.  On  looking  back,  we  cannot  but  feel  that  the 
excellence  they  attained  was  the  result  of  the  efforts  and 
aspirations  of  a  preceding  age ;  and  yet  these  men  were  so 
great  in  their  vocation,  and  so  individual  in  their  greatness, 
that,  losing  sight  of  the  linked  chain  of  progress,  they 
seemed  at  first  to  have  had  no  precursors,  as  they  have 
since  had  no  peers.  Though  living  at  the  same  time,  and 
most  of  them  in  personal  relation  with  each  other,  the  direc- 
tion of  each  mind  was  different  —  was  peculiar;  though 
exercising  in  some  sort  a  reciprocal  influence,  this  influence 
never  interfered  with  the  most  decided  originality.  These 
wonderful  artists,  who  would  have  been  remarkable  men  in 
their  time,  though  they  had  never  touched  a  pencil,  were 
Lionardo  da  Vinci,  Michael  Angelo,  Raphael,  Correggio, 
Giorgione,  Titian,  in  Italy ;  and  in  Germany,  Albert  Durer, 
Of  these  men,  we  might  say,  as  of  Homer  and  Shakespeare, 
that  they  belong  to  no  particular  age  or  country,  but  to  all 
time,  and  to  the  universe.  That  they  flourished  together 
within  one  brief  and  brilliant  period,  and  that  each  carried 
out  to  the  highest  degree  of  perfection  his  own  peculiar 
aims,  was  no  casualty ;  nor  are  we  to  seek  for  the  causes  of 
this  surpassing  excellence  merely  in  the  history  of  the  art  as 


240  MRS.   JAMESON. 

such.  The  causes  lay  far  deeper,  and  must  be  referred  to  the 
history  of  human  culture.  The  fermenting  activity  of  the 
fifteenth  century  found  its  results  in  the  extraordinary  devel- 
opment of  human  intelligence  in  the  commencement  of  the 
sixteenth  century.  We  often  hear  in  these  days  of  "  the 
spirit  of  the  age  "  ;  but  in  that  wonderful  age  three  mighty 
spirits  were  stirring  society  to  its  depths :  —  the  spirit  oi 
bold  investigation  into  truths  of  all  kinds,  which  led  to  the 
Reformation  ;  the  spirit  of  daring  adventure,  which  led  men 
in  search  of  new  worlds  beyond  the  eastern  and  the  western 
oceans ;  and  the  spirit  of  art,  through  which  men  soared  even 
to  the  "  seventh  heaven  of  invention." 


LIONARDO    DA    VINCI. 

LIONARDO  DA  VINCI  seems  to  present  hi  his  own  person  a 
resume  of  all  the  characteristics  of  the  age  in  which  he  lived. 
He  was  the  miracle  of  that  age  of  miracles.  Ardent  and 
versatile  as  youth ;  patient  and  persevering  as  age ;  a  most 
profound  and  original  thinker ;  the  greatest  mathematician 
and  most  ingenious  mechanic  of  his  time  ;  architect,  chemist, 
engineer,  musician,  poet,  painter  !  —  we  are  not  only  astound- 
ed by  the  variety  of  his  natural  gifts  and  acquired  knowl- 
edge, but  by  the  practical  direction  of  his  amazing  powers. 
The  extracts  which  have-  been  published  from  MSS.  now 
existing  in  his  own  handwriting  show  him  to  have  antici- 
pated, by  the  force  of  his  own  intellect,  some  of  the  greatest 
discoveries  made  since  his  time.  These  fragments,  says  Mr. 
Hallam,  "  are,  according  to  our  common  estimate  of  the  age 
in  which  he  lived,  more  like  revelations  of  physical  truths 
vouchsafed  to  a  single  mind,  than  the  superstructure  of  its 
reasoning  upon  any  established  basis.  The  discoveries  which 
made  Galileo,  Kepler,  Castelli,  and  other  names  illustrious 
—  the  system  of  Copernicus  —  the  very  theories  of  recent 
geologists,  are  anticipated  by  Da  Vinci  within  the  compass 


TWO   OF   THE   OLD    MASTERS.  241 

of  a  few  pages,  not  perhaps  in  the  most  precise  language, 
or  on  the  most  conclusive  reasoning,  but  so  as  to  strike  us 
with  something  like  the  awe  of  preternatural  knowledge. 
In  an  age  of  so  much  dogmatism,  he  first  laid  down  the 
grand  principle  of  Bacon,  that  experiment  and  observation 
must  be  the  guides  to  just  theory  in  the  investigation  of 
nature.  If  any  doubt  could  be  harbored,  not  as  to  the  right 
of  Lionardo  da  Vinci  to  stand  as  the  first  name  of  the  fif- 
teenth century,  which  is  beyond  all  doubt,  but  as  to  his 
originality  in  so  many  discoveries  which  probably  no  one 
man,  especially  in  such  circumstances,  has  ever  made,  it 
must  be  by  an  hypothesis  not  very  untenable,  that  some  parts 
of  physical  science  had  already  attained  a  height  which 
mere  books  do  not  record." 

It  seems  at  first  sight  almost  incomprehensible  that,  thus 
endowed  as  a  philosopher,  mechanic,  inventor,  discoverer, 
the  fame  of  Lionardo  should  now  rest  on  the  works  he  has 
left  as  a  painter.  We  cannot,  within  these  limits,  attempt 
to  explain  why  and  how  it  is  that  as  the  man  of  science  he 
has  been  naturally  and  necessarily  left  behind  by  the  onward 
march  of  intellectual  progress,  while  as  the  poet-painter  he 
still  survives  as  a  presence  and  a  power.  "We  must  proceed 
at  once  to  give  some  account  of  him  in  the  character  in 
which  he  exists  to  us  and  for  us,  —  that  of  the  great  artist. 

Lionardo  was  born  at  Vinci,  near  Florence,  in  the  Lower 
Val  d'Arno,  on  the  borders  of  the  territory  of  Pistoia. 
His  father,  Piero  da  Vinci,  was  an  advocate  of  Florence,  — 
not  rich,  but  hi  independent  circumstances,  and  possessed  of 
estates  in  land.  The  singular  talAts  of  his  son  induced 
Piero  to  give  him,  from  an  early  age,  the  advantage  of  the 
best  instructors.  As  a  child,  he  distinguished  himself  by 
his  proficiency  in  arithmetic  and  mathematics.  Music  he 
studied  early,  as  a  science  as  well  as  an  art  He  invented 
a  species  of  lyre  for  himself,  and  sung  his  own  poetical  com- 
positions to  his  own  music,  —  both  being  frequently  extempo- 
11  p 


242  MBS.    JAMESON. 

raneous.  But  his  favorite  pursuit  was  the  art  of  design  in  all 
its  branches ;  he  modelled  in  clay  or  wax,  or  attempted  to 
draw  every  object  which  struck  his  fancy.  His  father  sent 
him  to  study  under  Andrea  Verrocchio,  famous  as  a  sculp- 
tor, chaser  in  metal,  and  painter.  Andrea,  wh«  was  ah  ex- 
cellent and  correct  designer,  but  a  bad  and  hard  colorist, 
was  soon  after  engaged  to  paint  a  picture  of  the  Baptism  of 
our  Saviour.  He  employed  Lionardo,  then  a  youth,  to  exe- 
cute one  of  the  angels.  This  he  did  with  so  much  softness 
and  richness  of  color  that  it  far  surpassed  the  rest  of  the  pic- 
ture ;  and  Verrocchio  from  that  time  threw  away  his  palette, 
and  confined  himself  wholly  to  his  works  in  sculpture  and 
design ;  "  enraged,"  says  Vasari,  "  that  a.  child  should  thus 
excel  him." 

The  youth  of  Lionardo  thus  passed  away  in  the  pursuit  of 
science  and  of  art.  Sometimes  he  was  deeply  engaged  in 
astronomical  calculations  and  investigations ;  sometimes  ar- 
dent in  the  study  of  natural  history,  botany,  and  anatomy ; 
sometimes  intent  on  new  effects  of  color,  light,  shadow,  or 
expression,  in  representing  objects  animate  or  inanimate. 
Versatile,  yet  persevering,  he  varied  his  pursuits,  but  he 
never  abandoned  any.  He  was  quite  a  young  man  when  he 
conceived  and  demonstrated  the  practicability  of  two  magnifi- 
cent projects.  One  was,  to  lift  the  whole  of  the  Church  of 
San  Lorenzo,  by  means  of  immense  levers,  some  feet  higher 
than  it  now  stands,  and  thus  supply  the  deficient  elevation  ; 
the  other  project  was,  to  form  the  Arno  into  a  navigable 
canal,  as  far  as  Pisa,  which  would  have  added  greatly  to  the 
commercial  advantages  %f  Florence. 

It  happened  about  this  time  that  a  peasant  on  the  estate 
of  Piero  da  Vinci  brought  him  a  circular  piece  of  wood,  cut 
horizontally  from  the  trunk  of  a  very  large  old  fig-tree> 
which  had  been  lately  felled,  and  begged  to  have  something 
painted  on  it  as  an  ornament  for  his  cottage.  The  man 
being  an  especial  favorite,  Piero  desired  his  son  Lionardo 


TWO    OF   THE   OLD    MASTERS.  243 

to  gratify  his  request ;  and  Lionardo,  inspired  by  that  wild- 
ness  of  fancy  which  was  one  of  his  characteristics,  took  the 
panel  into  his  own  room,  and  resolved  to  astonish  his  fathor 
by  a  most  unlooked-for  proof  of  his  art.  He  determined  to 
compose  something  which  should  have  an  effect  similar  to 
that  of  the  Medusa  on  the  shield  of  Perseus,  and  almost 
petrify  beholders.  Aided  by  his  recent  studies  in  natural 
history,  he  collected  together  from  the  neighboring  swamps 
and  the  river-mud  all  kinds  of  hideous  reptiles,  as  adders, 
lizards,  toads,  serpents  ;  insects,  as  moths,  locusts ;  and  other 
crawling  and  flying,  obscene  and  obnoxious  things ;  and  out 
of  these  he  compounded  a  sort  of  monster,  or  chimera,  which 
he  represented  as  about  to  issue  from  the  shield,  with  eyes 
flashing  fire,  and  of  an  aspect  so  fearful  and  abominable  that 
it  seemed  to  infect  the  very  air  around.  When  finished,  he 
led  his  father  into  the  room  in  which  it  was  placed,  and  the 
terror  and  horror  of  Piero  proved  the  success  of  his  at- 
tempt. This  production,  afterwards  known  as  the  Rotello 
del  Fico,  from  the  material  on  which  it  was  painted,  was  sold 
by  Piero  secretly  for  one  hundred  ducats,  to  a  merchant, 
who  carried  it  to  Milan,  and  sold  it  to  the  duke  for  three 
hundred.  To  the  poor  peasant  thus  cheated  of  his  Rotello, 
Piero  gave  a  wooden  shield,  on  which  was  painted  a  heart 
transfixed  by  a  dart ;  a  device  better  suited  to  his  taste  and 
comprehension.  In  the  subsequent  troubles  of  Milan,  Lion- 
ardo's  picture  disappeared,  and  was  probably  destroyed,  as  an 
object  of  horror,  by  those  who  did  not  understand  its  value 
as  a  work  of  art. 

The  anomalous  monster  represented  on  the  Rotello  was 
wholly  different  from  the  Medusa,  afterwards  painted  by 
Lionardo,  and  now  existing  in  the  Florence  Gallery.  It 
represents  the  severed  head  of  Medusa,  seen  foreshortened, 
lying  on  a  fragment  of  rock.  The  features  are  beautiful 
and  regular ;  the  hair  already  metamorphosed  into  ser- 
pents, 


244  MRS.   JAMESON. 

"  which  curl  and  flow, 
And  their  long  tangles  in  each  other  lock, 
And  with  unending  involutions  show 
Their  maile'd  radiance." 

Those  who  have  once  seen  this  terrible  and  fascinating  pic 
ture  can  never  forget  it.  The  ghastly  head  seems  to  expire, 
and  the  serpents  to  crawl  into  glittering  life,  as  we  look 
upon  it. 

During  this  first  period  of  his  life,  which  was  wholly 
passed  in  Florence  and  its  neighborhood,  Lionardo  painted 
several  other  pictures,  of  a  very  different  character,  and  de- 
signed some  beautiful  cartoons  of  sacred  and  mythological 
subjects,  which  showed  that  his  sense  of  the  beautiful,  the 
elevated,  and  the  graceful,  was  not  less  a  part  of  his  mind, 
than  that  eccentricity  and  almost  perversion  of  fancy  which 
made  him  delight  in  sketching  ugly,  exaggerated  caricatures, 
and  representing  the  deformed  and  the  terrible. 

Lionardo  da  Vinci  was  now  about  thirty  years  old,  in  the 
prime  of  his  life  and  talents.  His  taste  for  pleasure  and 
expense  was,  however,  equal  to  his  genius  and  indefatigable 
industry ;  and,  anxious  to  secure  a  certain  provision  for  the 
future,  as  well  as  a  wider  field  for  the  exercise  of  his  various 
talents,  he  accepted  the  invitation  of  Ludovico  Sforza  il 
Moro,  then  regent,  afterwards  Duke  of  Milan,  to  reside  in 
his  court,  and  to  execute  a  colossal  equestrian  statue  of  his 
ancestor  Francesco  Sforza.  Here  begins  the  second  period 
of  his  artistic  career,  which  includes  his  sojourn  at  Milan, 
that  is,  from  1483  to  1499. 

Vasari  says  that  Lionardo  was  invited  to  the  court  of 
Milan  for  the  Duke  Ludo vice's  amusement,  k'  as  a  musician 
and  performer  on  the  lyre,  and  as  the  greatest  singer  and 
improvisators  of  his  time " ;  but  this  is  improbable.  Lio- 
nardo, in  his  long  letter  to  that  prince,  in  which  he  recites 
his  own  qualifications  for  employment,  dwells  chiefly  on  his 
skill  in  engineering  and  fortification,  and  sums  up  his  pre- 


TWO   OF   THE   OLD   MASTERS.  245 

tensions  as  an  artist  in  these  few  brief  words :  "  I  under- 
stand the  different  modes  of  sculpture  in  marble,  bronze, 
and  terra-cotta.  In  painting,  also,  I  may  esteem  myself 
equal  to  any  one,  let  him  be  who  he  may."  Of  his  musical 
talents  he  makes  no  mention  whatever,  though  undoubtedly 
these,  as  well  as  his  other  social  accomplishments,  his  hand- 
some person,  his  winning  address,  his  wit  and  eloquence, 
recommended  him  to  the  notice  of  the  prince,  by  whom  he 
was  greatly  beloved,  and  in  whose  service  he  remained  for 
about  seventeen  years.  It  is  not  necessary,  nor  would  it  be 
possible  here,  to  give  a  particular  account  of  all  the  works 
in  which  Lionardo  was  engaged  for  his  patron,  nor  of  the 
great  political  events  in  which  he  was  involved,  more  by  his 
position  than  by  his  inclination ;  for  instance,  the  invasion 
of  Italy  by  Charles  VIII.  of  France,  and  the  subsequent  in- 
vasion of  Milan  by  Louis  XII.,  which  ended  in  the  destruc- 
tion of  the  Duke  Ludovico.  We  shall  only  mention  a  few 
of  the  pictures  he  executed.  One  of  these,  the  portrait  of 
Lucrezia  Crivelli,  is  now  in  the  Louvre  (No.  1091).  An- 
other was  the  Nativity  of  our  Saviour,  in  the  imperial 
collection  at  Vienna ;  but  the  greatest  work  of  all,  and  by 
far  the  grandest  picture  which,  up  to  that  time,  had  been 
executed  in  Italy,  was  the  Last  Supper,  painted  on  the  wall 
of  the  refectory,  or  dining-room,  of  the  Dominican  convent 
of  the  Madonna  delle  Grazie.  It  occupied  the  painter  about 
two  years.  Of  this  magnificent  creation  of  art  only  the 
mouldering  remains  are  now  visible.  It  has  been  so  often 
repaired,  that  almost  every  vestige  of  the  original  painting 
is  annihilated ;  but,  from  the  multiplicity  of  descriptions, 
engravings,  and  copies  that  exist,  no  picture  is  more  uni- 
versally known  and  celebrated. 

The  moment  selected  by  the  painter  is  described  in  the 
twenty-sixth  chapter  of  St.  Matthew,  twenty-first  and 
twenty-seconl  verses:  "And  as  they  did  eat,  he  said. 
Verily,  I  say  unto  you,  that  one  of  you  shall  betray  me 


246  MRS.   JAMESON. 

and  they  were  exceedingly  sorrowful,  and  began  every  one 
of  them  to  say  unto  him,  Lord,  is  it  I?"  The  knowledge 
of  character  displayed  in  the  heads  of  the  different  apostles 
is  even  more  wonderful  than  the  skilful  arrangement  of  the 
figures  and  the  amazing  beauty  of  the  workmanship.  The 
space  occupied  by  the  picture  is  a  wall  twenty-eight  feet  in 
length,  and  the  figures  are  larger  than  life.  The  best  judg- 
ment we  can  now  form  of  its  merits  is  from  the  fine  copy 
executed  by  one  of  Leonardo's  best  pupils,  Marco  Uggione, 
for  the  Certosa  at  Pa  via,  and  now  in  London,  in  the  col- 
lection of  the  Royal  Academy.  Eleven  other  copies,  by 
various  pupils  of  Lionardo,  painted  either  during  his  life- 
time or  within  a  few  years  after  his  death,  while  the  picture 
was  in  perfect  preservation,  exist  in  different  churches  and 
collections. 

Of  the  grand  equestrian  statue  of  Francesco  Sforza,  Lio- 
nardo never  finished  more  than  the  model  in  clay,  which 
was  considered  a  masterpiece.  Some  years  afterwards,  (in 
1499,)  when  Milan  was  invaded  by  the  French,  it  was  used 
as  a  target  by  the  Gascon  bowmen,  and  completely  destroyed. 
The  profound  anatomical  studies  which  Lionardo  made  for 
this  work  still  exist. 

In  the  year  1500,  the  French  being  in  possession  of 
Milan,  his  patron  Ludovico  in  captivity,  and  the  affairs  of 
the  state  in  utter  confusion,  Lionardo  returned  to  his  native 
Florence,  where  he  honed  to  re-establish  his  broken  for- 
tunes, arid  to  find  employment.  Here  begins  the  third 
period  of  his  artistic  life,  from  1500  to  1513,  that  is,  from 
his  forty-eighth  to  his  sixtieth  year.  He  found  the  Medici 
family  in  exile,  but  was  received  by  Pietro  Soderini  (who 
governed  the  city  as  "  Gonfaloniere  perpetuo ")  with  great 
distinction,  and  a  pension  was  assigned  to  him  as  painter  in 
the  service  of  the  republic. 

Then  began  the  rivalry  between  Lionardo  and  Michael 
Angelo,  which  lasted  during  the  remainder  of  Lionardo's 


TWO   OF   THE   OLD   MASTERS.  247 

life.  The  difference  of  age  (for  Michael  Angelo  was  twenty- 
two  years  younger)  ought  to  have  prevented  all  unseemly 
jealousy.  Bat  Michael  Angelo  was  haughty,  and  impatient 
of  all  superiority,  or  even  equality  ;  Lioriardo,  sensitive, 
capricious,  and  naturally  disinclined  to  admit  the  pretensions 
of  a  rival,  to  whom  he  could  sav,  and  did  say,  "  I  was  famous 
before  you  were  born ! "  With  all  their  admiration  of  each 
other's  genius,  their  mutual  frailties  prevented  any  real 
good-will  on  either  side.  The  two  painters  competed  for 
the  honor  of  painting  in  fresco  one  side  of  the  great  Council- 
hall  in  the  Palazzo  Vecchio  at  Florence.  Each  prepared 
his  cartoon ;  each,  emulous  of  the  fame  and  conscious  of  the 
abilities  of  his  rival,  threw  all  his  best  powers  into  his  work. 
Lionardo  chose  for  his  subject  the  Defeat  of  the  Milanese 
general,  ifcccolo  Piccinino,  by  the  Florentine  army  in  1440. 
One  of  tna  finest  groups  represented  a  combat  of  cavalry 
disputing  the  possession  of  a  standard.  "  It  was  so  wonder- 
fully executed,  that  the  horses  themselves  seemed  animated 
by  the  same  fury  as  their  riders ;  nor  is  it  possible  to  de- 
scribe the  variety  of  attitudes,  the  splendor  of  the  dresses 
and  armor  of  the  warriors,  nor  the  incredible  skill  displayed 
in  the  forms  and  actions  of  the  horses." 

Michael  Angelo  chose  for  his  subject  the  moment  before 
the  same  battle,  when  a  party  of  Florentine  soldiers  bathing 
in  the  Arno  are  surprised  by  the  sound  of  the  trumpet  call- 
ing them  to^arms.  Of  this  cartoon  we  shall  have  more  to 
say  in  treating  of  his  life.  The  preference  was  given  to 
Lionardo  da  Vinci.  But,  as  Vasari  relates,  he  spent  so 
much  time  in  trying  experiments,  and  in  preparing  the  wall 
to  receive  oil  painting,  which  he  preferred  to  fresco,  that  in 
the  interval  some  changes  in  the  government  intervened, 
and  the  design  was  abandoned.  The  two  cartoons  remained 
for  several  years  open  to  the  public,  and  artists  flocked  from 
every  part  of  Italy  to  study  them.  Subsequently  they  were 
cut  up  into  separate  parts,  dispersed,  and  lost.  It  is  curious 


248  MRS.   JAMESON. 

that  of  Michael  Angelo's  composition  only  one  small  copy 
exists ;  of  Lionardo's,  not  one.  From  a  fragment  which  ex- 
isted in  his  time,  but  which  has  since  disappeared,  Rubens 
made  a  fine  drawing,  which  was  engraved  by  Edelinck,  and 
is  known  as  the  Battle  of  the  Standard. 

It  was  a  reproach  against  Lionardo,  in  his  own  time,  that 
he  began  many  things  and  finished  few ;  that  his  magnificent 
designs  and  projects,  whether  it  art  or  mechanics,  were  sel- 
dom completed.  This  may  be  a  subject  of  regret,  but  it  is 
unjust  to  make  it  a  reproach.  It  was  in  the  nature  of  the 
man.  The  grasp  of  his  mind  was  so  nearly  superhuman, 
that  he  never,  in  anything  he  effected,  satisfied  himself  or 
realized  his  own  vast  conceptions.  The  most  exquisitely 
finished  of  his  works,  those  that  in  the  perfection  of  the  exe- 
cution have  excited  the  wonder  and  despair  of  succeeding 
artists,  were  put  aside  by  him  as  unfinished  sketches.  Most 
of  the  pictures  now  attributed  to  him  were  wholly  or  in 
part  painted  by  his  scholars  and  imitators  from  his  cartoons. 
One  of  the  most  famous  of  these  was  designed  for  the  altar- 
piece  of  the  church  of  the  convent  called  the  Nunziata.  It 
represented  the  Virgin  Mary  seated  in  the  lap  of  her 
mother,  St.  Anna,  having  in  her  arms  the  infant  Christ, 
while  St.  John  is  playing  with  a  lamb  at  their  feet;  St. 
Anna,  looking  on  with  a  tender  smile,  rejoices  in  her  divine 
offspring.  The  figures  were  drawn  with  such  skill,  and  the 
various  expressions  proper  to  each  conveyed  with  such  inim- 
itable truth  and  grace,  that,  when  exhibited  in  a  chamber  of 
the  convent,  the  inhabitants  of  the  city  flocked  to  see  it,  and 
for  two  days  the  streets  were  crowded  with  people,  "  as  if  it 
had  been  some  solemn  festival "  ;  but  the  picture  was  never 
painted,  and  the  monks  of  the  Nunziata,  after  waiting  kng 
and  in  vain  for  their  altar-piece,  were  obliged  to  employ 
other  artists.  The  cartoon,  or  a  very  fine  repetition  of  it, 
is  now  in  the  possession  of  the  Royal  Academy,  and  it  must 
not  be  confounded  with  the  St.  Anna  in  the  Louvre,  a  more 
fantastic  and  apparently  an  earlier  composition. 


TWO    OF    THE   OLD    MASTERS.  249 

Lionardo,  during  his  stay  at  Florence,  painted  the  por- 
trait of  Ginevra  Benci,  already  mentioned,  in  the  memoir  of 
Ghirlandajo.  as  the  reigning  beauty  of  her  time ;  and  also 
the  portrait  of  Mona  Lisa  del  Giocondo,  sometimes  called 
La  Joconde.  On  this  last  picture  he  worked  at  intervals 
for  four  years,  but  was  still  unsatisfied.  It  was  purchased 
by  Francis  I.  for  four  thousand  golden  crowns,  and  is  now 
in  the  Louvre.  We  find  Lionardo  also  engaged  by  Crcsar 
Borgia  to  visit  and  report  on  the  fortifications  of  his  territo- 
ries, and  in  this  office  he  was  employed  for  two  years.  In 
1514  he  was  invited  to  Rome  by  Leo  X.,  but  more  in  his 
character  of  philosopher,  mechanic,  and  alchemist,  than  as  a 
painter.  Here  he  found  Raphael  at  the  height  of  his  fame, 
and  then  engaged  in  his  greatest  works,  —  the  frescos  of 
the  Vatican.  Two  pictures  which  Lionardo  painted  while 
at  Rome  —  the  Madonna  of  St.  Onofrio,  and  the  Holy  Fam- 
ily, painted  for  Filiberta  of  Savoy,  the  Pope's  sister-in-law 
(which  is  now  at  St.  Petersburg)  —  show  that  even  this 
veteran  in  art  felt  the  irresistible  influence  of  the  genius  of 
his  young  rival.  They  were  both  Raffaellesque  in  the  sub- 
ject and  treatment. 

It  appears  that  Lionardo  was  ill-satisfied  with  his  sojourn 
at  Rome.  He  had  long  been  accustomed  to  hold  the  first 
rank  as  an  artist  wherever  he  resided ;  whereas  at  Rome  he 
found  himself  only  one  among  many  who,  if  they  acknowl- 
edged his  greatness,  affected  to  consider  his  day  as  past. 
Ho  was  conscious  that  many  of  the  improvements  m  the 
arts  which  were  now  brought  into  use.  and  which  enabled 
the  painters  of  the  day  to  produce  such  extraordinary  effects, 
were  invented  or  introduced  by  himself.  If  he  could  no 
longer  assert  that  measureless  superiority  over  all  others 
which  he  had  done  in  his  younger  days,  it  was  because  he 
himself  had  opened  to  them  new  paths  to  excellence.  The 
arrival  of  his  old  competitor  Michael  Angelo,  and  some 
slight  on  the  part  of  Leo  X.,  who  was  annoyed  by  his  spec- 
ll* 


250  MBS.  JAMESON. 

ulative  and  dilatory  habits  in  executing  the  works  intrusted 
to  him,  all  added  to  his  irritation  and  disgust.  He  left 
Rome,  and  set  out  for  Pavia,  where  the  French  king  Fran- 
cis I.  then  held  his  court.  He  was  received  by  the  young 
monarch  with  every  mark  of  respect,  loaded  with  favors, 
and  a  pension  of  seven  hundred  gold  crowns  settled  on  him 
for  life.  At  the  famous  conference  between  Francis  I.  and 
Leo  X.  at  Bologna,  Lionardo  attended  his  new  patron,  and 
was  of  essential  service  to  him  on  that  occasion.  In  the  fol- 
lowing year,  1516,  he  returned  with  Francis  I.  to  France, 
and  was  attached  to  the  French  court  as  principal  painter. 
It  appears,  however,  that  during  his  residence  in  France  he 
did  not  paint  a  single  picture.  His  health  had  begun  to 
decline  from  the  time  lie  left  Italy  ;  and,  feeling  his  end 
approach,  he  prepared  himself  for  it  by  religious  meditation, 
by  acts  of  charity,  and  by  a  most  conscientious  distribution 
by  will  of  all  his  worldly  possessions  to  his  relatives  and 
friends.  At  length,  after  protracted  suffering,  this  great 
and  most  extraordinary  man  died  at  Cloux,  near  Amboise, 
on  the  2d  of  May,  1519,  being  then  in  his  sixty-seventh 
year.  It  is  to  be  regretted  that  we  cannot  wholly  credit 
the  beautiful  story  of  his  dying  in  the  arms  of  Francis  I., 
who,  as  it  is  said,  had  come  to  visit  him  on  his  death-bed.  It 
would,  indeed,  have  been,  as  Fuseli  expressed  it,  "an  honor 
to  the  king,  by  which  Destiny  would  have  atoned  to  that 
monarch  for  his  future  disaster  at  Pavia,"  had  the  incident 
really  happened,  as  it  has  been  so  often  related  by  biogra- 
phers, celebrated  by  poets,  represented  with  a  just  pride  by 
painters,  and  willingly  believed  by  all  the  world ;  but  the 
well-authenticated  fact  that  the  court  was  on  that  day  at  St. 
Germain-en-Laye,  whence  the  royal  ordinances  are  dated, 
renders  the  story,  unhappily,  very  doubtful. 


TWO    OF    THE   OLD   MASTERS.  251 


TITIAN. 

TIZIANO  VECELLI  was  born  at  Cadore  in  the  Friuli,  a 
district  to  the  north  of  Venice,  where  the  ancient  family  of 
the  Vecelli  had  been  long  settled.  There  is  something  very 
amusing  and  characteristic  in  the  first  indication  of  his  love 
of  art ;  tor  while  it  is  recorded  of  other  young  artists  that 
they  took  a  piece  of  charcoal  or  a  piece  of  slate  to  trace  the 
images  in  their  fancy,  we  are  told  that  the  infant  Titian, 
with  an  instinctive  feeling  prophetic  of  his  future  excellence 
as  a  colorist,  used  the  expressed  juice  of  certain  flowers  to 
paint  a  figure  of  a  Madonna.  When  he  was  a  boy  of  nine 
years  old  his  father,  Gregorio,  carried  him  to  Venice  and 
placed  him  under  the  tuition  of  Sebastian  Zuccato,  a 
painter  and  worker  in  mosaic.  He  left  this  school  for 
that  of  the  Bellini,  where  the  friendship  and  fellowship  of 
Giorgione  seems  early  to  have  awakened  his  mind  to  new 
ideas  of  art  and  color.  Albert  Durer.  who  was  at  Venice 
in  1494,  and  again  in  1507,  also  influenced  him.  At  this 
time,  when  Titian  and  Giorgione  were  youths  of  eighteen 
and  nineteen,  they  lived  and  worked  together.  It  has  been 
related  that  they  were  employed  in  painting  the  frescos  of 
the  Fondaco  dei  Tedeschi.  The  preference  being  given  to 
Titian's  performance,  which  represented  the  story  of  Judith, 
caused  such  a  jealousy  between  the  two  friends,  that  they 
ceased  to  reside  together ;  but  at  this  time,  and  for  some 
years  afterwards,  the  influence  of  Giorgione  on  the  mind 
and  the  style  of  Titian  was  such  that  it  became  difficult  to 
distinguish  their  works ;  and  on  the  death  of  Giorgione, 
Titian  was  required  to  complete  his  unfinished  pictures. 
This  great  lo?s  to  Venice  and  the  world  left  him  in  the 
prime  of  youth  without  a  rival.  We  find  him  for  a  few 
years  chiefly  employed  in  decorating  the  palaces  of  the 
Venetian  nobles,  both  in  the  city  and  on  the  mainland. 


252  MRS.   JAMESON. 

The  first  of  his  historical  compositions  which  is  celebrated 
by  his  biographers  is  the  Presentation  of  the  Virgin  in 
the  Temple,  a  large  picture,  now  in  the  Academy  of 
Arts  at  Venice ;  and  the  first  portrait  recorded  is  that  of 
Catherine,  Queen  of  Cyprus,  of  which  numerous  repeti- 
tions and  copies  were  scattered  over  all  Italy.  There  is 
a  fine  original  in  the  Dresden  Gallery.  This  unhappy 
Catherine  Cornaro,  the  "daughter  of  St.  Mark,"  having 
been  forced  to  abdicate  her  crown  in  favor  of  the  Venetian 
state,  was  at  this  time  living  in  a  sort  of  honorable  captivity 
at  Venice.  She  had  been  a  widow  for  forty  years,  and  he 
has  represented  her  in  deep  mourning,  holding  a  rosarv  in 
her  hand,  —  the  face  still  bearing  traces  of  that  beauty  for 
which  she  was  celebrated. 

It  appears  that  Titian  was  married  about  1512,  but  of  his 
wife  we  do  not  hear  anything  more.  It  is  said  that  her 
name  was  Lucia,  and  we  know  that  she  bore  him  three  chil 
dren,  —  two  sons,  and  a  daughter  called  Lavinia.  It  .seems 
probable,  on  a  comparison  of  dates,  that  she  died  about  the 
year  1530. 

One  of  the  earliest  works  on  which  Titian  was  engaged 
was  the  decoration  of  the  convent  of  St.  Antony,  at  Padua, 
in  which  he  executed  a  series  of  frescos  from  the  life  of  St. 
Antony.  He  was  next  summoned  to  Ferrara  by  the  Duke 
Alphonso  I.,  and  was  employed  in  his  service  for  at  least 
two  years.  He  painted  for  this  prince  the  beautiful  picture 
of  Bacchus  and  Ariadne,  which  is  now  in  the  National  Gal- 
lery, and  which  represents  on  a  small  scale  an  epitome  of 
all  the  beauties  which  characterize  Titian,  in  the  rich,  pictur- 
esque, animated  composition,  in  the  ardor  of  Bacchus,  who 
flings  himself  from  his  car  to  pursue  Ariadne;  the  dancing 
bacchanals,  the  frantic  grace  of  the  bacchante,  and  the  little 
joyous  satyr  in  front,  trailing  the  head  of  the  sacrifice.  He 
painted  for  the  same  prince  two  other  festive  subjects:  one 
in  which  a  nymph  and  two  men  are  dancing,  while  another 


TWO    OF  THE   OLD   MASTERS.  253 

nymph  lies  asleep ;  and  a  third,  in  which  a  number  of  chil- 
dren and  cupids  are  sporting  round  a  statue  of  Venus. 
There  are  here  upwards  of  sixty  figures  in  every  variety 
of  attitude,  some  fluttering  in  the  air,  some  climbing  the 
fruit-trees,  some  shooting  arrows,  or  embracing  each  other. 
This  picture  is  known  as  the  Sacrifice  to  the  Goddess  of 
Fertility.  While  it  remained  in  Italy,  it  was  a  study  for 
the  first  painters,  —  for  Poussin,  the  Carracci,  Albano,  and 
Fiamingo  the  sculptor,  so  famous  for  his  models  of  children. 
At  Ferrara,  Titian  also  painted  the  portrait  of  the  first  wife 
of  Alphonso,  the  famous  and  infamous  Lucrezia  Borgia; 
and  here  also  he  formed  a  friendship  with  the  poet  Ariosto, 
whose  portrait  he  painted. 

At  this  time  he  was  invited  to  Rome  by  Leo  X.,  for 
whom  Raphael,  then  in  the  zenith  of  his  powers,  was  execut- 
ing some  of  his  finest  works.  It  is  curious  to  speculate 
what  influence  these  two  distinguished  men  might  have 
exercised  on  each  other  had  they  met ;  but  it  was  not  so 
decreed.  Titian  was  strongly  attached  to  his  home  and  his 
friends  at  Venice  ;  and  to  hi<  birthplace,  the  little  town  of 
Cadore,  he  paid  an  annual  summer  visit.  His  long  absence 
at  Ferrara  had  wearied  him  of  courts  and  princes;  and, 
instead  of  going  to  Rome  to  swell  the  luxurious  state  of  Leo 
X.,  he  returned  to  Venice  and  remained  there  stationary  for 
the  next  few  years,  enriching  its  palaces  and  churches  with 
his  magnificent  works.  These  were  so  numerous  that  it 
would  be  in  vain  to  attempt  to  give  an  account  even  of  those 
considered  as  the  finest  among  them.  Two,  however,  must  be 
pointed  out  as  pre-eminent  in  beauty  and  celebrity.  First, 
the  Assumption  of  the  Virgin,  painted  for  the  Church  of 
Santa  Maria  de'  Frari,  and  now  in  the  Academy  of  the 
Fine  Arts  at  Venice,  and  well  known  from  the  magnificent 
engraving  of  Schiavone  —  the  Virgin  is  soaring  to  heaven 
amid  groups  of  angels,  while  the  apostles  gaze  upwards; 
and,  se  '.ondly,  the  Death  of  St.  Peter  Martyr  when  attacked 


254  MRS.   JAMESON. 

by  assassins  at  the  entrance  of  a  wood ;  the  resignation  of 
the  prostrate  victim  and  the  ferocity  of  the  murderer,  the 
attendant  flying  **  in  the  agonies  of  cowardice,"  with  the  trees 
waving  their  distracted  boughs  amid  the  violence  of  the  tem- 
pest, have  rendered  this  picture  famous  as  a  piece  of  scenic 
poetry  as  well  as  of  dramatic  expression. 

The  next  event  of  Titian's  life  was  his  journey  to  Bologna 
in  1530.  In  that  year  the  Emperor  Charles  V.  and  Pope 
Clement  VII.  met  at  Bologna,  each  surrounded  by  a  bril- 
liant retinue  of  the  most  distinguished  soldiers,  statesmen, 
and  scholars,  of  Germany  and  Italy.  Through  the  influence 
of  his  friend  Aretino,  Titian  was  recommended  to  the  Car- 
dinal Ippolito  de'  Medici,  the  Pope's  nephew,  through  whose 
patronage  he  was  introduced  to  the  two  potentates  who  sat 
to  him.  One  of  the  portraits  of  Clement  VII.,  painted  at 
this  time,  is  now  in  the  Bridgewater  Gallery.  Charles  V. 
was  so  satisfied  with  his  portrait,  that  he  became  the  zealous 
friend  and  patron  of  the  painter.  It  is  not  precisely  known 
which  of  several  portraits  of  the  Emperor  painted  by  Titian 
was  the  one  executed  at  Bologna  on  this  memorable  occa- 
sion, but  it  is  supposed  to  be  that  which  represents  him  on 
horseback  charging  with  his  lance,  now  in  the  Royal  Gallery 
at  Madrid,  and  of  which  Mr.  Rogers  possesses  the  original 
study.  The  two  portraits  of  Ippolito  de'  Medici  in  the  Pitti 
Palace  and  the  Louvre  were  also  painted  at  this  period. 

After  a  sojourn  of  some  months  at  Bologna,  Titian  re- 
turned to  Venice  loaded  with  honors  and  rewards.  There 
was  no  potentate,  prince,  or  poet,  or  reigning  beauty,  who 
did  not  covet  the  honor  of  being  immortalized  by  his  pencil. 
He  had,  up  to  this  time,  managed  his  worldly  affairs  with 
great  economy ;  but  now  he  purchased  for  himself  a  house 
opposite  to  Murano,  and  lived  splendidly,  combining  with 
the  most  indefatigable  industry  the  liveliest  enjoyment  of 
existence  ;  his  favorite  companions  were  the  architect  San 
Bovino  and  the  witty  profligate  Pietro  Aretii  o.  Titian  has 


TWO  OF  THE   OLD   MASTERS.  255 

often  been  reproached  with  his  friendship  for  Aretino,  and 
nothing  can  be  said  in  his  excuse,  except  that  the  proudest 
princes  in  Europe  condescended  to  flatter  and  caress  this 
unprincipled  literary  ruffian,  who  was  pleased  to  designate 
himself  as  the  ';  friend  of  Titian,  and  the  scourge  of  princes." 
One  of  the  finest  of  Titian's  portraits  is  that  of  Aretino,  in 
the  Munich  Gallery. 

Thus  in  the  practice  of  his  art,  in  the  society  of  his 
friends,  and  in  the  enjoyment  of  the  pleasures  of  life,  did 
Titian  pass  several  years.  The  only  painter  of  his  time 
who  was  deemed  worthy  of  competing  with  him  was  Lieinio 
Regillo,  better  known  as  Pordenone,  Between  Titian  and 
Pordenone  there  existed  not  merely  rivalry,  but  a  personal 
hatred,  so  bitter  that  Pordenone  affected  to  think  his  life  in 
danger,  and  when  at  Venice  painted  with  his  shield  and 
poniard  lying  beside  him.  As  long  as  Pordenone  lived, 
Titian  had  a  spur  to  exertion,  to  emulation.  All  the  other 
good  painters  of  the  time,  Palma,  Bonifazio,  Tintoretto, 
were  his  pupils  or  his  creatures ;  Pordenone  would  never 
owe  anything  to  him;  and  the  picture  called  the  St.  Jus- 
tina,  at  Vienna,  shows  that  he  could  equal  Titian  on  his  own 
ground. 

After  the  death  of  Pordenone  at  Ferrara,  in  1539,  Titian 
was  left  without  a  rival.  Everywhere  in  Italy  art  was  on 
the  decline :  Lionardo,  Raphael,  Correggio,  had  all  passed 
away.  Titian  himself,  at  the  age  of  sixty,  was  no  longer 
young,  but  he  still  retained  all  the  vigor  and  the  freshness 
of  youth  ;  neither  eye  nor  hand,  nor  creative  energy  of  mind 
had  failed  him  yet.  He  was  again  invited  to  Ferrara,  and 
painted  there  the  portrait  of  the  old  Pope  Paul  III.  He 
then  visited  Urbino,  where  he  painted  for  the  Duke  the  fa- 
mous Venus  which  hangs  in  the  Tribune  of  the  Florence  Gal- 
lery, and  many  other  pictures.  He  again,  by  order  of  Charles 
V.,  repaired  to  Bologna,  and  painted  the  Emperor,  standing, 
and  by  his  side  a  favorite  Irish  wolf-dog.  This  picture  was 


256  MRS.   JAMESON. 

given  by  Philip  IV.  to  Charles  I.  of  England,  but  after  his 
death  was  sold  into  Spain,  and  is  now  at  Madrid. 

Pope  Paul  III.  invited  him  to  Rome,  whither  he  repaired 
in  1548.  There  he  painted  that  wonderful  picture  of  the 
old  Pope  with  his  two  nephews,  the  Duke  Ottavio  and  Car- 
dinal Farnese,  which  is  now  at  Vienna.  The  head  of  the 
Pope  is  a  miracle  of  character  and  expression.  A  keen-vis- 
aged,  thin  little  man,  with  meagre  fingers  like  birds'  claws, 
and  an  eager  cunning  look,  riveting  the  gazer  like  the  eye  of 
a  snake,  —  nature  itself!  —  and  the  Pope  had  cither  so  little 
or  so  much  vanity  as  to  be  perfectly  satisfied.  He  rewarded 
the  painter  munificently;  he  even  offered  to  make  his  son 
Pomponio  Bishop  of  Ceneda,  which  Titian  had  the  good 
sense  to  refuse.  While  at  Rome  he  painted  several  pic- 
tures for  the  Farnese  family,  among  them  the  Venus  and 
Adonis,  of  which  a  repetition  is  in  the  National  Gallery, 
and  a  Danae  which  excited  the  admiration  of  Michael  An- 
gelo.  At  this  time  Titian  was  seventy-two. 

He  next,  by  command  of  Charles  V.,  repaired  to  Augs- 
burg, where  the  Emperor  held  his  court:  eighteen  years 
had  elapsed  since  he  first  sat  to  Titian,  and  he  was  now 
broken  by  the  cares  of  government,  —  far  older  at  fifty  than 
the  painter  at  seventy-two.  It  was  at  Augsburg  that  the 
incident  occurred  which  has  been  so  often  related :  Titian 
dropped  his  pencil,  and  Charles,  taking  it  up  and  presenting 
it,  replied  to  the  artist's  excuses  that  "  Titian  was  worthy  of 
being  served  by  Cassar."  This  pretty  anecdote  is  not  with- 
out its  parallel  in  modern  times.  When  Sir  Thomas  Law- 
rence was  painting  at  Aix-la-Chapelle.  as  he  stooped  to  place 
a  picture  on  his  easel,  the  Emperor  of  Russia  anticipated  him, 
and,  taking  it  up,  adju  ted  it  himself;  but  we  do  not  hear 
that  he  made  any  speech  on  the  occasion.  When  at  Augs- 
burg, Titian  was  ennobled  and  created  a  count  of  the  em- 
pire, with  a  pension  of  two  hundred  gold  ducats,  and  his  son 
Pomponio  was  appointed  canon  of  the  cathedral  of  Milan. 


TWO  OF  THE    OLD   MASTERS.  257 

After  the  abdication  and  death  of  Charles  V.,  Titian  contin- 
ued in  great  favor  with  his  successor  Philip  II.,  for  whom 
he  painted  several  pictures.  It  is  not  true,  however,  thai 
Titian  visited  Spain.  The  assertion  that  lie  did  so  rests  on 
the  sole  authority  of  Palomino,  a  Spanish  writer  on  art,  and, 
though  wholly  unsupported  by  evidence,  has  been  copied 
from  one  book  into  another.  Later  researches  have  proved 
that  Titian  returned  from  Augsburg  to  Venice;  and  an 
uninterrupted  series  of  letters  and  documents,  with  dates  of 
time  and  place,  remain  to  show  that,  with  the  exception  of 
this  visit  to  Augsburg  and  another  to  Vienna,  he  resided 
constantly  in  Italy,  and  principally  at  Venice,  from  1530  to 
his  death.  Notwithstanding  the  compliments  and  patronage 
and  nominal  rewards  he  received  from  tlvj  Spanish  court, 
Titian  was  worse  off  under  Philip  II.  than  he  had  been 
under  Charles  V. :  his  pension  was  constantly  in  arrears ; 
the  payments  for  his  pictures  evaded  by  the  officials :  and 
we  find  the  great  painter  constantly  presenting  petitions 
and  complaints  in  moving  terms,  which  always  obtained  gra- 
cious but  illusive  answers.  Philip  II.,  who  commanded  the 
riches  of  the  Indies,  was  for  many  years  a  debtor  to  Titian 
for  at  least  two  thousand  gold  crowns ;  and  his  accounts 
were  not  settled  at  the  time  of  his  death.  For  Queen 
Mary  of  England,  who  wished  to  patronize  one  favored  by 
her  husband,  Titian  painted  several  pictures,  some  of  which 
were  in  the  possession  of  Charles  I. ;  others  had  been  car- 
ried to  Spain  after  the  death  of  Mary,  and  are  now  in  the 
Royal  Gallery  at  Madrid. 

Besides  the  pictures  painted  by  command  for  royal  and 
noble  patrons,  Titian,  who  was  unceasingly  occupied,  had 
always  a  great  number  of  pictures  in  his  house  which  he 
presented  to  his  friends,  or  to  the  officers  and  attendants  of 
the  court,  as  a  means  of  procuring  their  favor.  There  is 
extant  a  letter  of  Aretino,  in  which  he  describes  the  scene 
which  took  place  when  the  Emperor  summoned  his  favorite 

Q 


258  MRS.  JAMESON. 

painter  to  attend  the  court  at  Augsburg.  "  Tt  was,"  he 
says,  "  the  most  flattering  testimony  to  his  excellence  to 
behold,  as  soon  as  it  was  known  that  the  divine  painter  was 
sent  for,  the  crowds  of  people  running  to  obtain,  if  possible, 
the  productions  of  his  art ;  and  how  they  endeavored  to 
purchase  the  pictures,  great  and  small,  and  ever}  thing  that 
was  in  the  house,  at  any  price  ;  for  everybody  seems  assured 
that  his  august  majesty  will  so  treat  his  Apelles  that  he 
will  no  longer  condescend  to  exercise  his  pencil  except  to 
oblige  him." 

Years  passed  on,  and  seemed  to  have  no  power  to  quench 
the  ardor  of  this  wonderful  old  man.  He  was  eighty-one 
when  he  painted  the  Martyrdom  of  St.  Laurence,  one  of 
his  largest  and  grandest  compositions.  The  Magdalen,  the 
half-length  figure  with  uplifted  streaming  eyes,  which  lie 
sent  to  Philip  II.,  was  executed  even  later ;  and  it  was  not 
till  he  was  approaching  his  ninetieth  year  that  he  showed 
in  his  works  symptoms  of  enfeebled  powers  ;  and  then  it 
seemed  as  if  sorrow  rather  than  time  had  reached  him  and 
conquered  him  at  last.  The  death  of  many  friends,  the 
companions  of  his  convivial  hours,  left  him  "alone  in  his 
glory."  He  found  in  his  beloved  art  the  only  refuge  from 
grief.  His  son  Pomponio  was  still  the  same  worthless 
profligate  in  age  that  he  had  been  in  youth.  His  son  Orazio 
attended  upon  him  with  truly  filial  duty  and  affection,  and 
under  his  father's  tuition  had  become  an  accomplished  artist ; 
but  as  they  always  worked  together,  and  on  the  same  can- 
vas, his  works  are  not  to  be  distinguished  from  his  father's. 
Titian  was  likewise  surrounded  by  painters  who,  without 
being  precisely  his  scholars,  had  assembled  from  every  part 
of  Europe  to  profit  by  his  instructions.  The  early  morning 
and  the  evening  hour  found  him  at  his  easel ;  or  lingering 
in  his  little  garden  (where  he  had  feasted  with  Aretino  and 
Sansovino,  and  Bembo  and  Ariosto,  and  "  the  most  gracious 
Virginia,"  and  "  the  most  beautiful  Violante  "),  and  gazing 


TWO   OF    THE    OLD   MASTERS.  259 

on  the  setting  sun,  with  a  thought  perhaps  of  his  own  long 
and  bright  career  fast  hastening  to  its  close  ;  —  not  that  such 
anticipations  clouded  his  cheerful  spirit,  —  buoyant  to  the 
last!  In  1574,  when  he  was  in  his  ninety-seventh  year, 
Henry  III.  of  France  landed  at  Venice  on  his  way  from 
Poland,  and  was  magnificently  entertained  by  the  Republic. 
On  this  occasion  the  King  visited  Titian  at  his  own  house, 
attended  by  a  numerous  suite  of  princes  and  nobles.  Titian 
entertained  them  with  splendid  hospitality;  and  when  the 
King  asked  the  price  of  some  pictures  which  pleased  him, 
he  presented  them  as  a  gift  to  his  Majesty,  and  every  one 
praised  his  easy  and  noble  manners  and  his  generoua 
bearing. 

Two  years  more  passed  away,  and  the  hand  did  not  yet 
tremble  nor  was  the  eye  dim.  When  the  plague  broke 
out  in  Venice,  the  nature  of  the  distemper  was  at  first  mis- 
taken, and  the  most  common  precautions  neglected ;  the 
contagion  spread,  and  Titian  and  his  son  were  among  those 
who  perished.  Every  one  had  fled,  and  before  life  was 
extinct  some  ruffians  entered  his  chamber  and  carried  off, 
before  his  eyes,  his  money,  jewels,  and  some  of  his  pictures. 
His  death  took  place  on  the  9th  of  September,  1575.  A 
law  had  been  made  during  the  plague  that  none  should  be 
buried  in  the  churches,  but  that  all  the  dead  bodies  should 
be  carried  beyond  the  precincts  of  the  city ;  an  exception, 
however,  even  in  that  hour  of  terror  and  anguish,  was  made 
in  favor  of  Titian.  His  remains  were  borne  with  honor  to 
the  tomb,  and  deposited  in  the  Church  of  Santa  Maria  do* 
Frari,  for  which  he  had  painted  his  famous  Assumption. 
There  he  lies  beneath  a  plain  black  marble  slab,  on  which 
is  simply  inscribed, 

"TIZIANO  VECELLIO." 

In  the  year  1794  the  citizens  of  Venice  resolved  to  erect 
a  noble  and  befitting  monument  to  his  memory.  Canova 


260  MRS.   JAMLSON. 

made  the  design  ;  —  but  the  troubles  which  intervened,  and 
the  extinction  of  the  Republic,  prevented  the  execution  of 
this  project.  Canova's  magnificent  model  was  appropriated 
to  another  purpose,  and  now  forms  the  cenotaph  of  the 
Archduchess  Christina,  in  the  Church  of  the  Augustines 
at  Vienna. 

This  was  the  life  and  death  of  the  famous  Titian.  He 
was  pre-eminently  the  painter  of  nature  ;  but  to  him  nature 
was  clothed  in  a  perpetual  garb  of  beauty,  or  rather  to  him 
nature  and  beauty  were  one.  In  historical  compositions 
and  sacred  subjects  he  has  been  rivalled  and  surpassed, 
but  as  a  portrait  painter  never ;  and  his  portraits  of  cele- 
brated persons  have  at  once  the  truth  and  the  dignity  of 
history. 


THE  POET'S   HEART 


BY  FREDERICK   TENNYSON. 


WHEN  the  Poet's  heart  is  dead, 
That  with  fragrance,  light,  and  sound, 
Like  a  Summer-day  was  fed, 

Where,  O,  where  shall  it  be  found,  — 
In  Sea,  or  Air,  or  underground  ? 


ii. 

It  shall  be  a  sunny  place ; 
An  urn  of  odors  ;  a  still  well, 

Upon  whose  undisturbed  face 

The  lights  of  Heaven  shall  love  to  dwell, 
And  its  far  depths  make  visible. 


m. 

It  shall  be  a  crimson  flower 

That  in  Fairyland  hath  thriven  ; 

For  dew  a  gentle  Sprite  shall  pour 
Tears  of  Angels  down  from  Heaven, 
And  hush  the  winds  at  morn  and  even. 


262  FREDERICK   TENNYSON. 

IV. 

It  shall  be  on  some  fair  morn 

A  swift  and  many-voiced  wind, 
Singing  down  the  skies  of  June, 
And  with  its  breath  and  gladsome  tune 
Send  joy  into  the  heart  and  mind. 

v. 

It  shall  be  a  fountain  springing, 
Far  up  into  the  happy  light, 
With  a  silver  carol  ringing, 
With  a  magic  motion  flinging 
Its  jocund  waters,  starry-bright. 

VI. 

It  shall  be  a  tiny  thing 

Whose  breath  is  in  it  for  a  day, 

To  fold  at  Eve  its  weary  wing, 
And  at  the  dewfall  die  away 
On  some  pure  air,  or  golden  ray, 

VII. 

Falling  in  a  violet-bloom ; 

Tombed  in  a  sphere  of  pearly  rain ; 

Its  blissful  ghost  a  wild  perfume 
To  come  forth  with  the  Morn  again, 
And  wander  through  an  infant's  brain ; 

VIII. 

And  the  pictures  it  should  set 
In  that  temple  of  Delight 

Would  make  the  tearless  cherub  fret 
With  its  first  longing  for  a  sight 
Of  things  beyond  the  Day  and  Night. 


THE  POET'S  HEART.  263 

IX. 

But  one  moment  of  its  span 

Should  thicker  grow  with  blissful  things 
Than  any  days  of  mortal  Man, 
Or  his  years  of  Sorrow  can, 

Though  beggars  should  be  crowned  kings, 

x. 

It  shall  be  a  tuneful  voice 
Falling  on  a  Lover's  ear, 

Enough  to  make  his  heart  rejoice 
For  evermore,  or  far,  or  near, 
In  dreams  that  swallow  hope  and  fear. 

XI. 

It  shall  be  a  chord  divine 

By  Mercy  out  of  Heaven  hung  forth, 

Along  whose  trembling,  airy  line 
A  dying  Saint  shall  hear  on  earth 
Triumphant  songs,  and  harped  mirth ! 

XII. 

It  shall  be  a  wave  forlorn 

That  o  'er  the  vast  and  fearful  Sea 

In  troubled  pride  and  beauty  borne 
From  winged  storms  shall  vainly  flee 
And  seek  for  rest  where  none  shall  be. 

XIII. 

It  shall  be  a  mountain  Tree, 

Thro'  whose  great  arms  the  winds  shall  blow 
Louder  than  the  roaring  Sea, 

And  toss  its  plumed  head  to  and  fro ; 

But  a  thousand  flowers  shall  live  below 


264  FREDERICK  TENNYSON. 

XIV. 
It  shall  be  a  kingly  Star 

That  o'er  a  thousand  Suns  shall  burn 
Where  the  high  Sabaoth  are, 
And  round  its  glory  flung  afar 

A  mighty  host  shall  swiftly  turn. 

xv. 

All  things  of  beauty  it  shall  be  — 

All  things  of  power  —  of  joy  —  of  fear ; 
But  out  of  bliss  and  agony 
It  shall  come  forth  more  pure  and  free, 
And  sing  a  song  more  sweet  to  hear. 

XVI. 

For  methinks,  when  it  hath  passed 

Thro'  wondrous  Nature's  world- wide  reign, 

Perchance  it  may  come  home  at  last, 
And  the  old  Earth  may  hear  again 
Its  lofty  voice  of  Joy  and  Pain. 


CHARACTER  OF  FRA  ANGELICO. 

BY  GIORGIO  VASARL 

FRA  ANGELICO  was  a  man  of  the  utmost  simplicity 
of  intention,  and  was  most  holy  in  every  act  of  his 
life.  It  is  related  of  him,  and  it  is  a  good  evidence  of  his 
simple  earnestness  of  purpose,  that  being  one  morning  invited 
to  breakfeast  by  Pope  Nicholas  V.,  he  had  scruples  of  con- 
science as  to  eating  meat  without  the  permission  of  his  prior, 
not  considering  that  the  authority  of  the  pontiff  was  super- 
seding that  of  the  prior.  He  disregarded  all  earthly  advan- 
tages ;  and,  living  in  pure  holiness,  was  as  much  the  friend 
of  the  poor  in  life  as  I  believe  his  soul  now  is  in  heaven. 
He  labored  continually  at  his  paintings,  but  would  do  noth- 
ing that  was  not  connected  with  things  holy.  He  might 
have  been  rich,  but  for  riches  he  took  no  care  ;  on  the  con- 
trary he  was  accustomed  to  say,  that  the  only  true  riches 
was  contentment  with  little.  He  might  have  commanded 
many,  but  would  not  do  so,  declaring  that  there  was  less 
fatigue  and  less  danger  of  error  in  obeying  others,  than  in 
commanding  others.  It  was  at  his  option  to  hold  places  of 
dignity  in  the  brotherhood  of  his  order,  and  also  in  the 
world ;  but  he  regarded  them  not,  affirming  that  he  sought 
no  dignity  and  took  no  care  but  that  of  escaping  hell  and 
drawing  near  to  Paradise.  And  of  a  truth  what  dignity 
can  be  compared  to  that  which  should  be  most  coveted  by 
all  Churchmen,  nay,  by  every  man  living,  that,  namely, 
12 


266  GIORGIO   VASARI. 

which  is  found  in  God  alone,  and  in  a  life  of  virtuous 
labor  ? 

Fra  Angelico  was  kindly  to  all,  and  moderate  in  all  his 
habits,  living  temperately,  and  holding  himself  entirely  apart 
from  the  snares  of  the  world.  He  used  frequently  to  say, 
tLat  he  who  practised  the  art  of  painting  had  need  of  quiet, 
and  should  live  without  cares  or  anxious  thoughts  ;  adding, 
that  he  who  would  do  the  work  of  Christ  should  perpetually 
remain  with  Christ.  He  was  never  seen  to  display  anger 
among  the  brethren  of  his  order ;  a  thing  which  appears  to 
me  most  extraordinary,  nay,  almost  incredible ;  if  he  admon- 
ished his  friends,  it  was  with  gentleness  and  a  quiet  smile  ; 
and  to  those  who  sought  his  works,  he  would  reply  with  the 
utmost  cordiality,  that  they  had  but  to  obtain  the  assent  of 
the  prior,  when  he  would  assuredly  not  fail  to  do  what  they 
desired.  In  fine,  this  never  sufficiently  to  be  lauded  father 
was  most  humble,  modest,  and  excellent  in  all  his  words 
,  and  works ;  in  his  painting  he  gave  evidence  of  piety  and 
devotion,  as  well  as  of  ability,  and  the  saints  that  he  painted 
have  more  of  the  air  and  expression  of  sanctity  than  have 
those  of  any  other  master. 

It  was  the  custom  of  Fra  Angelico  to  abstain  from  re- 
touching or  improving  any  painting  once  finished.  He 
altered  nothing,  but  left  all  as  it  was  done  the  first  time, 
believing,  as  he  said,  that  such  was  the  will  of  God.  It  is 
also  affirmed  that  he  would  never  take  the  pencil  in  hand 
until  he  had  first  offered  a  prayer.  He  is  said  never  to 
have  painted  a  Crucifix  without  tears  streaming  from  hi? 
eyes,  and  in  the  countenances  and  attitudes  of  his  figures  i^ 
is  easy  to  perceive  proof  of  his  sincerity,  his  goodness,  and 
the  depth  of  his  devotion  to  the  religion  of  Christ. 

He  died  in  1455,  at  the  age  of  sixty-eight. 


SONGS. 


BY   WILLIAM  BLAKE. 


I  GIVE  you  the  end  of  a  golden  string  • 

Only  wind  it  into  a  ball, 
It  will  lead  you  in  at  Heaven's  gate, 

Built  in  Jerusalem  wall. 


I. 

MY    SILKS    AND    FINE    ARRAY: 

MY  silks  and  fine  array, 
My  smiles  and  languished  air, 
By  love  are  driven  away. 

And  mournful,  lean  Despair 
Brings  me  yew  to  deck  my  grave : 
Such  end  true  lovers  have. 

His  face  is  fair  as  heaven 

When  springing  buds  unfold ; 

O,  why  to  him  was  't  given, 
Whose  heart  is  wintry  cold? 

His  breast  is  Love's  all-worshipped  tomb 

Where  all  love's  pilgrims  come. 

Bring  me  an  axe  and  spade, 
Bring  me  a  winding-sheet ; 


268  WILLIAM   BLAKE. 

When  I  my  grave  have  made, 

Let  winds  and  tempests  beat : 
Then  down  I  '11  lie,  as  cold  as  clay. 
True  love  doth  pass  away  ! 


n. 

THE    FIRST    SONG    OF  INNOCENCE, 

PIPING  down  the  valleys  wild, 
Piping  songs  of  pleasant  glee, 

On  a  cloud  I  saw  a  child, 

And  he,  laughing,  said  to  me : 

"  Pipe  a  song  about  a  Lamb ! " 
So  I  piped  with  merry  cheer 

"  Piper,  pipe  that  song  again  " ; 
So  I  piped :  he  wept  to  hear 

"  Drop  thy  pipe,  thy  happy  pipe : 
Sing  thy  songs  of  happy  cheer ! " 

So  I  sang  the  same  again, 

While  he  wept  with  joy  to  hear. 

"  Piper,  sit  thee  down  and  write 
In  a  book,  that  all  may  read." 

So  he  vanished  from  my  sight, 
And  I  plucked  a  hollow  reed, 

And  I  made  a  rural  pen, 
And  I  stained  the  water  clear, 

And  I  wrote  my  happy  songs 
Every  child  may  joy  to  hear. 


SONGS.  269 

m. 

THE    LITTLE    BLACK    BOY. 

MY  mother  bore  me  in  the  southern  wild, 
And  I  am  black,  but  O,  my  soul  is  white. 

White  as  an  angel  is  the  English  child, 
But  I  am  black,  as  if  bereaved  of  light 

My  mother  taught  me  underneath  a  tree, 
And,  sitting  down  before  the  heat  of  day, 

She  took  me  on  her  lap  and  kissed  me, 
And,  pointing  to  the  East,  began  to  say : 

"  Look  on  the  rising  sun  :  there  God  does  live, 
And  gives  this  light,  and  gives  His  heat  away ; 

And  flowers  and  trees  and  beasts  and  men  receive 
Comfort  in  morning,  joy  in  the  noonday. 

"  And  we  are  put  on  earth  a  little  space, 

That  we  may  learn  to  bear  the  beams  of  love ; 

And  these  black  bodies  and  this  sunburnt  face 
Are  but  a  cloud,  and  like  a  shady  grove. 

"  For  when  our  souls  have  learned  the  heat  to  bear, 
The  cloud  will  vanish,  we  shall  hear  His  voice, 

Saying,  *  Come  out  from  the  grove,  my  love  and  care, 
And  round  my  golden  tent  like  lambs  rejoice.' " 

Thus  did  my  mother  say,  and  kissed  me, 

And  thus  I  say  to  little  English  boy : 
When  I  from  black,  and  he  from  white  cloud  free, 

And  round  the  tent  of  God  like  lambs  we  joy ; 


270  WILLIAM   BLAKE. 

I  '11  shade  him  from  the  heat  till  he  can  bear 
To  lean  in  joy  upon  our  Father's  knee ; 

And  then  I  '11  stand  and  stroke  his  silver  hair, 
And  be  like  him,  and  he  will  then  love  me. 


IV. 
THE    CHIMNEY-SWEEPER. 

WHEN  my  mother  died  I  was  very  young, 
And  my  father  sold  me  while  yet  my  tongue 
Could  scarcely  cry,  "  Weep !  weep !  weep !  weep ! " 
So  your  chimneys  I  sweep  and  in  soot  I  sleep. 

There 's  little  Tom  Dacre,  who  cried  when  his  head, 
That  curled  like  a  lamb's  back,  was  shaved ;  so  I  said, 
"  Hush,  Tom !  never  mind  it,  for  when  your  head  's  bare, 
You  know  that  the  soot  cannot  spoil  your  white  hair." 

And  so  he  was  quiet,  and  that  very  night, 

As  Tom  was  a-sleeping,  he  had  such  a  sight ; 

That  thousands  of  sweepers,  Dick,  Joe,  Ned,  and  Jack, 

Were  all  of  them  locked  up  in  coffins  of  black. 

And  by  came  an  angel,  who  had  a  bright  key, 
And  he  opened  the  coffins,  and  set  them  all  free ; 
Then  down  a  green  plain,  leaping,  laughing  they  run, 
And  wash  in  a  river,  and  shine  in  the  sun. 

Then  naked  and  white,  all  their  bags  left  behind, 
They  rise  upon  clouds,  and  sport  in  the  wind ; 
And  the  angel  told  Tom,  if  he  'd  be  a  good  boy, 
He  'a  have  God  for  his  father,  and  never  want  joy. 


SONGS.  271 

^.nd  so  Tom  awoke,  and  we  rose  in  the  dark, 
And  got  with  our  bags  and  our  brushes  to  work : 
Though  the  morning  was  cold,  Tom  was  happy  and  warm : 
So,  if  all  do  their  duty,  they  need  not  fear  harm. 


V. 
THE    DIVINE    IMAGE. 

To  mercy,  pity,  peace,  and  love, 
All  pray  in  their  distress, 

And  to  these  virtues  of  delight 
Return  their  thankfulness. 

For  mercy,  pity,  peace,  and  love, 
Is  God  our  Father  dear ; 

And  mercy,  pity,  peace,  and  love, 
Is  man,  His  child  and  care. 

For  Mercy  has  a  human  heart ; 

Pity,  a  human  face ; 
And  Love,  the  human  form  divine ; 

And  Peace,  the  human  dress. 

Then  every  man,  of  every  clime, 
That  prays  in  his  distress, 

Prays  to  the  human  form  divine : 
Love,  Mercy,  Pity,  Peace. 

And  all  must  love  the  human  form, 
In  heathen,  Turk,  or  Jew ; 

Where  mercy,  love,  and  pity  dwell, 
There  God  is  dwelling  too. 


272  WILLIAM   BLAKE. 

VI. 

ON    ANOTHER'S    SORROW, 

CAN  I  see  another's  woe, 
And  not  be  in  sorrow  too  ? 
Can  I  see  another's  grief, 
And  not  seek  for  kind  relief? 

Can  I  see  a  falling  tear, 
And  not  feel  my  sorrow's  share  ? 
Can  a  father  see  his  child 
Weep,  nor  be  with  sorrow  filled  ? 

Can  a  mother  sit  and  hear 
An  infant  groan,  an  infant  fear  ? 
No !  no !  never  can  it  be  ! 
Never,  never  can  it  be ! 

And  can  He,  who  smiles  on  all, 
Hear  the  wren,  with  sorrows  small, 
Hear  the  small  bird's  grief  and  care, 
Hear  the  woes  that  infants  bear  ? 

And  not  sit  beside  the  nest, 
Pouring  Pity  in  their  breast  ? 
And  not  sit  the  cradle  near, 
Weeping  tear  on  infant's  tear  ? 

And  not  sit  both  night  and  day, 
Wiping  all  our  tears  away  ? 
O,  no !  never  can  it  be  ! 
Never,  never  can  it  be ! 


SONGS.  273 


He  doth  give  his  joy  to  all : 
He  becomes  an  infant  small, 
He  becomes  a  man  of  woe, 
He  doth  feel  the  sorrow  too. 

Think  not  thou  canst  sigh  a  sigh, 
And  thy  Maker  is  not  by : 
Think  not  thou  canst  weep  a  tear, 
And  thy  Maker  is  not  near. 

O,  He  gives  to  us  his  joy, 
That  our  griefs  He  may  destroy: 
Till  our  grief  is  fled  and  gone, 
He  doth  sit  by  us  and  moan. 


vn. 

THE    TIGER. 

TIGER,  Tiger,  burning  bright 
In  the  forests  of  the  night, 
What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Framed  thy  fearful  symmetry  ? 

In  what  distant  deeps  or  skies 
Burned  that  fire  within  thine  eyes  ? 
On  what  wings  dared  he  aspire  ? 
What  the  hand  dared  seize  the  fire  ? 

And  what  shoulder,  and  what  art, 
Could  twist  the  sinews  of  thy  heart  ? 
When  thy  heart  began  to  beat,          • 
What  dread  hand  formed  thy  dread  feet  ? 
12*  u 


274  WILLIAM  BLAKE. 

What  the  hammer,  what  the  chain, 
Knit  thy  strength  and  forged  thy  brain  ? 
What  the  anvil  ?     What  dread  grasp 
Dared  thy  deadly  terrors  clasp  ? 

When  the  stars  threw  down  their  spears, 
And  watered  heaven  with  their  tears, 
Did  he  smile  his  work  to  see  ? 
Did  He  who  made  the  lamb  make  thee  ? 


VIII. 
A  LITTLE  BOY  LOST. 

"  NOUGHT  loves  another  as  itself, 

Nor  venerates  another  so, 
Nor  is  it  possible  to  thought 

A  greater  than  itself  to  know. 

"  And,  Father,  how  can  I  love  you 
Or  any  of  my  brothers  more  ? 

I  love  you  like  the  little  bird 

That  picks  up  crumbs  around  the  door." 

The  Priest  sat  by  and  heard  the  child  ; 

In  trembling  zeal  he  seized  his  hair, 
He  led  him  by  his  little  coat, 

And  all  admired  the  priestly  care. 

And  standing  on  the  altar  high, 

"  Lo !  what  a  fiend  is  here,"  said  he, 

"  One  who  sets  reason  up  for  judge 
Of  our  most  holy  Mystery." 


SONGS.  2/0 

The  weeping  child  could  not  be  heard, 
The  weeping  parents  wept  in  vain. 

They  stripped  him  to  his  little  shirt, 
And  bound  him  in  an  iron  chain, 

And  burned  him  in  a  holy  place 

Where  many  had  been  burned  before ; 

The  weeping  parents  wept  in  vain. 

Are  such  things  done  on  Albion's  shore  ? 


IX 
SMILE    AND    FROWN. 

THERE  is  a  smile  of  Love, 

And  there  is  a  smile  of  Deceit, 

And  there  is  a  smile  of  smiles 
In  which  the  two  smiles  meet 

And  there  is  a  frown  of  Hate, 
And  there  is  a  frown  of  Disdain, 

And  there  is  a  frown  of  frowns 

Which  you  strive  to  forget  in  vain ; 

For  it  sticks  in  the  heart's  deep  core, 
And  it  sticks  in  the  deep  backbone. 

And  no  smile  ever  was  smiled 
But  only  one  smile  alone. 

(And  betwixt  the  cradle  and  grave 
It  only  once  smiled  can  be,) 

That  when  it  once  is  smiled 
There  's  an  end  to  all  misery. 


276  WILLIAM   BLAKE 

X. 

OPPORTUNITY. 

HE  who  bends  to  himself  a  joy 
Does  the  winged  life  destroy ; 
But  he  who  kisses  the  joy  as  it  flies 
Lives  in  eternity's  sunrise. 


UPON  GROWING  OLD. 

BY  J.   HAIN  FRISWELL. 

JOHN  FOSTER,  (he  who  sprung  into  celebrity  from 
one  essay,  Popular  Ignorance,)  had  a  diseased  feeling 
against  growing  old,  which  seems  to  us  to  be  very  prevalent 
He  was  sorry  to  lose  every  parting  hour.  "  I  have  seen  a 
fearful  sight  to-day,"  he  would  say,  —  "I  have  seen  a  butter- 
cup." To  others  the  sight  would  only/give  visions  of  the 
coming  spring  and  future  summer ;  to'1  him  it  told  of  the 
past  year,  the  last  Christmas,  the  days  which  would  never 
come  again,  —  the  so  many  days  nearer  the  grave.  Thack- 
eray continually  expressed  the  same  feeling.  He  reverts 
to  the  merry  old  time  when  George  the  Third  was  king. 
He  looks  back  with  a  regretful  mind  to  his  own  youth. 
The  black  Care  constantly  rides  behind  his  chariot.  "  Ah, 
my  friends,"  he  says,  "  how  beautiful  was  youth !  We  are 
growing  old.  Spring-time  and  summer  are  past.  We  near 
the  winter  of  our  days.  We  shall  never  feel  as  we  have 
felt.  We  approach  the  inevitable  grave."  Few  men,  in 
deed,  know  how  to  grow  old  gracefully  as  Madame  de  Stael 
very  truly  observed.  There  is  an  unmanly  sadness  at  leav- 
ing off  the  old  follies  and  the  old  games.  We  all  hate  fo- 
geyism.  Dr.  Johnson,  great  and  good  as  he  was,  had  a  touch 
of  this  regret,  and  we  may  pardon  him  for  the  feeling.  A 
youth  spent  in  poverty  and  neglect,  a  manhood  consumed 
in  unceasing  struggle,  are  not  preparatives  to  growing  old  in 


278  J.  HAIN  FEISWELL. 

peace.  "We  fancy  that,  after  a  stormy  morning  and  a  lower- 
ing day,  the  evening  should  have  a  sunset  glow,  and,  when 
the  night  sets  in,  look  back  with  regret  at  the  "  gusty,  bab- 
bling, and  remorseless  day  " ;  but  if  we  do  so,  we  miss  the, 
supporting  faith  of  the  Christian  and  the  manly  cheerful- 
ness of  the  heathen.  To  grow  old  is  quite  natural ;  being 
natural,  it  is  beautiful ;  and  if  we  grumble  at  it,  we  miss 
the  lesson,  and  lose  all  the  beauty. 

Half  of  our  life  is  spent  in  vain  regrets.  When  we  are 
boys  we  ardently  wish  to  be  men ;  when  men  we  wish  as 
ardently  to  be  boys.  We  sing  sad  songs  of  the  lapse  of 
time.  We  talk  of  "  auld  lang  syne,"  of  the  days  when  we 
were  young,  of  gathering  shells  on  the  sea-shore  and  throw- 
ing them  carelessly  away.  We  never  cease  to  be  senti- 
mental upon  past  youth  arid  lost  manhood  and  beauty.  Yet 
there  are  no  regrets  so  false,  and  few  half  so  silly.  Per- 
haps the  saddest  sight  in  the  world  is  to  see  an  old  lady, 
wrinkled  and  withered,  dressing,  talking,  and  acting  like  a 
very  young  one,  and  forgetting  all  the  time,  as  she  clings  to 
the  feeble  remnant  of  the  past,  that  there  is  no  sham  so 
transparent  as  her  own,  and  that  people,  instead  of  feeling 
with  her,  are  laughing  at  her.  Old  boys  disguise  their  foi- 
bles a  little  better ;  but  they  are  equally  ridiculous.  The 
feeble  protests  which  they  make  against  the  flying  chariot 
of  Time  are  equally  futile.  The  great  Mower  enters  the 
field,  and  all  must  come  down.  To  stay  him  would  be  im- 
possible. We  might  as  well  try  with  a  finger  to  stop 
Ixion's  wheel,  or  to  dam  up  the  current  of  the  Thames  with 
a  child's  foot. 

Since  the  matter  is  inevitable,  we  may  as  well  sit  down 
and  reason  it  out.  Is  it  so  dreadful  to  grow  old  ?  Does  old 
age  need  its  apologies  and  its  defenders  ?  Is  it  a  benefit  or 
a  calamity  ?  Why  should  it  be  odious  and  ridiculous  ?  An 
old  tree  is  picturesque,  an  old  castle  venerable,  an  old  cathe- 
dral inspires  awe,  —  why  should  man  bo  worse  than  his 
works  ? 


UPON   GROWING   OLD.  279 

Let  us,  in  the  first  place,  see  what  youth  is.  Is  it  so 
blessed  and  happy  and  flourishing  as  it  seems  to  us? 
Schoolboys  do  not  think  so.  They  always  wish  to  be 
older.  You  cannot  insult  one  of  them  more  than  by  tell- 
iug  him  that  he  is  a  year  or  two  younger  than  he  is.  He 
fires  up  at  once:  "Twelve,  did  you  say,  sir?  Xo,  I'm 
fourteen."  But  men  and  women  who  have  reached  twenty- 
eight  do  not  thus  add  to  their  years.  Amongst  schoolboys, 
notwithstanding  the  general  tenor  of  those  romancists  who 
see  that  everything  young  bears  a  rose-colored  blush,  mis- 
ery is  prevalent  enough.  Emerson,  Coleridge,  Wordsworth, 
were  each  and  all  unhappy  boys.  They  all  had  their  re- 
buffs, and  bitter,  bitter  troubles ;  all  the  more  bitter  because 
their  sensitiveness  was  so  acute.  Suicide  is  not  unknown 
amongst  the  young ;  fears  prey  upon  them  and  terrify  them  ; 
ignorances  and  follies  surround  them.  Arriving  at  manhood, 
we  are  little  better  off.  If  we  are  poor,  we  mark  the  differ- 
ence between  the  rich  and  us ;  we  see  position  gains  all  the 
day.  If  we  are  as  clever  as  Hamlet,  we  grow  just  as  philo- 
sophically disappointed.  If  we  love,  we  can  only  be  sure  of 
a  brief  pleasure,  —  an  April  day.  Love  has  its  bitterness. 
"  It  is,"  says  Ovid,  an  adept  in  the  matter,  "  full  of  anxious 
fear."  We  fret  and  fume  at  the  authority  of  the  wise 
heads;  we  have  an  intense  idea  of  our  own  talent.  We 
believe  calves  of  our  own  age  to  be  as  big  and  as  valuable 
as  full-grown  bulls  ;  we  envy  whilst1  we  jest  at  the  old. 
We  cry,  with  the  puffed-up  hero  of  the  Patricians  Daugh- 
ter— 

"  It  may  be  by  the  calendar  of  years 
You  are  the  elder  man  ;  but 't  is  the  sun 
Of  knowledge  on  the  mind's  dial  shining  bright, 
And  chronicling  deeds  and  thoughts,  that  makes  true  time." 

And  yet  life  is  Avithal  very  unhappy,  whether  we  live 
amongst  the  grumbling  captains  of  the  clubs,  who  are  ever 
seeking  and  not  finding  promotion ;  amongst  the  strug- 


280  J.  HAIN  FRISWELL. 

gling  authors  and  rising  artists  who  never  rise ;  or  among 
the  young  men  who  are  full  of  riches,  titles,  places,  and 
honor,  who  have  every  wish  fulfilled,  and  are  miserable 
because  they  have  nothing  to  wish  for.  Thus  the  young 
Romans  killed  themselves  after  the  death  of  their  emperor, 
not  for  grief,  not  for  affection,  not  even  for  the  fashion  of 
suicide,  which  grew  afterwards  prevalent  enough,  but  from 
the  simple  weariness  of  doing  everything  over  and  over 
again.  Old  age  has  passed  such  stages  as  these,  landed  on 
a  safer  shore,  and  matriculated  in  a  higher  college,  in  a 
purer  air.  We  do  not  sigh  for  impossibilities;  we  cry 
not  — 

"  Bring  these  anew,  and  set  me  once  again 

In  the  delusion  of  life's  infancy ; 
I  was  not  happy,  but  I  knew  not  then 

That  happy  I  was  never  doomed  to  be." 

We  know  that  we  are  not  happy.  We  know  that  life 
perhaps  was  not  given  us  to  be  continuously  comfortable 
and  happy.  We  have  been  behind  the  scenes,  and  know 
all  the  illusions  ;  but  when  we  are  old  we  are  far  too  wise  to 
throw  life  away  for  mere  ennui.  With  Dandolo,  refusing  a 
crown  at  ninety-six,  winning  battles  at  ninety -four;  with 
Wellington,  planning  and  superintending  fortifications  at 
eighty;  with  Bacon  and  Humboldt,  students  to  the  last 
gasp ;  with  wise  old  Montaigne,  shrewd  in  his  gray-beard 
wisdom  and  loving  life,  even  in  the  midst  of  his  fits  of  gout 
and  colic,  —  Age  knows  far  too  much  to  act  like  a  sulky 
child.  It  knows  too  well  the  results  and  the  value  of 
things  to  care  about  them ;  that  the  ache  will  subside,  the 
pain  be  lulled,  the  estate  we  coveted  be  worth  little  ;  the 
titles,  ribbons,  gewgaws,  honors,  be  all  more  or  less  worth- 
less. "  Who  has  honor  ?  Pie  that  died  o'  Wednesday  !  '• 
Such  a  one  passed  us  in  the  race,  and  gained  it  but  to  fall. 
We  are  still  up  and  doing ;  we  may  be  frosty  and  shrewd, 
but  kindly.  We  can  wish  all  men  well ;  like  them,  too,  so 


UPON    GROWING    OLD.  281 

far  as  they  may  be  liked,  and  smile  at  the  fuss,  bother,  hurry, 
and  turmoil,  which  they  make  about  matters  which  to  us  are 
worthless  dross.  The  greatest  prize  in  the  whole  market  — 
in  any  and  in  every  market — success,  is  to  the  old  man 
nothing.  He  little  cares  who  is  up  and  who  is  down ;  the 
present  he  lives  in  and  delights  in.  Thus,  in  one  of  those 
admirable  comedies  in  which  Robson  acted,  we  find  the  son 
a  wanderer,  the  mother's  heart  nearly  broken,  the  father 
torn  and  broken  by  a  suspicion  of  his  son's  dishonesty,  but 
the  grandfather  all  the  while  concerned  only  about  his  gruel 
and  his  handkerchief.  Even  the  pains  and  troubles  incident 
to  his  state  visit  the  old  man  lightly.  Because  Southey  sat 
for  months  in  his  library,  unable  to  read  or  touch  the  books 
he  loved,  we  are  not  to  infer  that  he  was  unhappy.  If  the 
stage  darkens  as  the  curtain  falls,  certain  it  also  is  that  the 
senses  grow  duller  and  more  blunted.  "  Don't  cry  for  me, 
my  dear,"  said  an  old  lady  undergoing  an  operation ;  "  I  do 
not  feel  it." 

It  seems  to  us,  therefore,  that  a  great  deal  of  unnecessary 
pity  has  been  thrown  away  upon  old  age.  We  begin  at 
school  reading  Cicero's  treatise,  hearing  him  talk  with  Scipio 
and  Lcelius ;  we  hear  much  about  poor  old  men  ;  we  are 
taught  to  admire  the  vigor,  quickness,  and  capacity  of  youth 
and  manhood.  We  lose  sight  of  the  wisdom  which  age 
brings  even  to  the  most  foolish.  We  think  that  a  circum- 
scribed sphere  must  necessarily  be  an  unhappy  one.  It  is 
not  always  so.  What  one  abandons  in  growing  old  is  per- 
haps after  all  not  worth  having.  The  chief  part  of  youth  is 
but  excitement;  often  both  unwise  and  unhealthy.  The 
same  pen  which  has  written,  with  a  morbid  feeling,  that 
"  there  is  a  class  of  beings  who  do  grow  old  in  their  youth 
and  die  ere  middle  age,"  tells  us  ako  that  "  the  best  of  life  is 
but  intoxication."  That  passes  away.  The  man  who  has 
grown  old  does  not  care  about  it.  The  author  at  that  period 
has  no  feverish  excitement  about  seeing  himself  in  print; 


282  J.  HAIN  FRISWELL. 

he  does  not  hunt  newspapers  for  reviews  and  notices.  He 
is  content  to  wait;  he  knows  what  fame  is  worth.  The 
ohscure  man  of  science,  who  has  been  wishing  to  make  the 
world  better  and  wiser ;  the  struggling  curate,  the  poor  and 
hard-tried  man  of  God ;  the  enthusiastic  reformer,  who  has 
watched  the  sadly  slow  dawning  of  progress  and  liberty ; 
the  artist,  whose  dream  of  beauty  slowly  fades  before  his 
dim  eyes  —  all  lay  down  their  feverish  wishes  as  they 
advance  in  life,  forget  the  bright  ideal  which  they  cannot 
reach,  and  embrace  the  more  imperfect  real.  We  speak  not 
here  of  the  assured  Christian.  He,  from  the  noblest  pinna- 
cle of  faith,  beholds  a  promised  land,  and  is  eager  to  reach 
it ;  he  prays  "  to  be  delivered  from  the  body  of  this  death  " ; 
but  we  write  of  those  humbler,  perhaps  more  human  souls, 
with  whom  increasing  age  each  day  treads  down  an  illu- 
sion. All  feverish  wishes,  raw  and  inconclusive  de-ires, 
have  died  clown,  and  a  calm  beauty  and  peace  survive ; 
passions  are  dead,  temptations  weakened  or  conquered ; 
experience  has  been  won ;  selfish  interests  are  widened 
into  universal  ones ;  vain,  idle  hopes,  have  merged  into  a 
firmer  faith  or  a  complete  knowledge ;  and  more  light 
has  broken  in  upon  the  soul's  dark  cottage,  battered  and 
decayed,  "  through  chinks  which  Time  has  made." 

Again,  old  men  are  valuable,  not  only  as  relics  of  the 
past,  but  as  guides  and  prophets  for  the  future.  They  know 
the  pattern  of  every  turn  of  life's  kaleidoscope.  The  colors 
merely  fall  into  new  shapes ;  the  groundwork  is  just  the 
same.  The  good  which  a  calm,  kind,  and  cheerful  old  man 
can  do  is  incalculable.  And  whilst  he  does  good  to  others, 
he  enjoys  himself.  He  looks  not  unnaturally  to  that  which 
should  accompany  old  age  —  honor,  love,  obedience,  troops 
of  friends ;  and  he  plays  his  part  in  the  comedy  or  tragedy 
of  life  with  as  much  gusto  as  any  one  else.  Old  Montague 
or  Capulet,  and  old  Polonius,  that  wise  maxim-man,  enjoy 
themselves  quite  as  well  as  the  moody  Hamlet,  the  perturbed 


UPON   GROWING   OLD.  283 

Laertes,  or  even  gallant  Mercutio  or  love-sick  Romeo. 
Friar  Lawrence,  who  is  a  good  old  man,  is  perhaps  the 
happiest  of  all  in  the  dramatis  persona,  —  unless  we  take 
the  gossiping,  garrulous  old  nurse,  with  her  sunny  recollec- 
tions of  maturity  and  youth.  The  great  thing  is  to  have 
the  mind  well  employed,  to  work  whilst  it  is  yet  day.  The 
precise  Duke  of  Wellington,  answering  every  letter  with 
"  F.  M.  presents  his  compliments ";  the  wondrous  worker 
Humboldt,  with  his  orders  of  knighthood,  stars,  and  ribbons, 
lying  dusty  in  his  drawer,  still  contemplating  Cosmos,  and 
answering  his  thirty  letters  a  day,  —  were  both  men  in  ex- 
ceedingly enviable,  happy  positions ;  they  had  reached  the 
top  of  the  hill,  and  could  look  back  quietly  over  the  rough 
road  which  they  had  travelled.  We  are  not  all  Humboldts 
or  Wellingtons ;  but  we  can  all  be  busy  and  good.  Experi- 
ence must  teach  us  all  a  great  deal ;  and  if  it  only  teaches 
us  not  to  fear  the  future,  not  to  cast  a  maundering  regret 
over  the  past,  we  can  be  as  happy  in  old  age  —  ay,  and  far 
more  so  —  than  we  were  in  youth.  We  are  no  longer  the 
fools  of  time  and  error.  We  are  leaving  by  slow  degrees 
the  old  world;  we  stand  upon  the  threshold  of  the  new; 
not  without  hope,  but  without  fear,  in  an  exceedingly  natu- 
ral position,  with  nothing  strange  or  dreadful  about  it ;  with 
our  domain  drawn  within  a  narrow  circle,  but  equal  to  our 
power.  Muscular  strength,  organic  instincts,  are  all  gone ; 
but  what  then  ?  We  do  not  want  them ;  we  are  getting 
ready  for  the  great  change,  one  which  is  just  as  necessary 
as  it  was  to  be  born ;  and  to  a  little  child  perhaps  one  is  not 
a  whit  more  painful,  —  perhaps  not  so  painful  as  the  other. 
The  wheels  of  Time  have  brought  us  to  the  goal ;  we  are 
about  to  rest  while  others  labor,  to  stay  at  home  while 
others  wander.  We  touch  at  last  the  mysterious  door,  — 
are  we  to  be  pitied  or  to  be  envied  ? 


THE    TITMOUSE. 

BY  K.  W.  EMERSON. 

YOU  shall  not  be  over-bold 
When  you  deal  with  arctic  cold, 
As  late  I  found  ray  lukewarm  blood 
Chilled  wading  in  the  snow-choked  wood. 
How  should  I  fight  ?  ray  foeman  fine 
Has  million  arms  to  one  of  mine. 
East,  west,  for  aid  I  looked  in  vain ; 
East,  west,  north,  south,  are  his  domain. 
Miles  off,  three  dangerous  miles,  is  home  ; 
Must  borrow  his  winds  who  there  would  comet 
Up  and  away  for  life  !  be  fleet ! 
The  frost-king  ties  my  fumbling  feet, 
Sings  in  my  ears,  my  hands  are  stones, 
Curdles  the  blood  to  the  marble  bones, 
Tugs  at  the  heartstrings,  numbs  the  sense, 
Hems  in  the  life  with  narrowing  fence. 

Well,  in  this  broad  bed  lie  and  sleep, 

The  punctual  stars  will  vigil  keep, 

pnbalmed  by  purifying  cold, 

The  winds  shall  sing  their  dead-march  old, 

The  snow  is  no  ignoble  shroud, 

Che  moon  thy  mourner,  and  the  cloud. 

Softly,  —  but  this  way  fate  was  pointing, 
'T  was  coming  fast  to  such  anointing, 


THE  TITMOUSE.  285 

When  piped  a  tiny  voice  hard  by, 
Gay  and  polite,  a  cheerful  cry, 
"  Chic-chic-a-dee-dee!"  saucy  note, 
Out  of  sound  heart  and  merry  throat, 
As  if  it  said,  "  Good  day,  good  sir  I 
Fine  afternoon,  old  passenger ! 
Happy  to  meet  you  in  these  places, 
Where  January  brings  few  men's  faces." 

This  poet,  though  he  live  apart, 

Moved  by  a  hospitable  heart, 

Sped,  when  I  passed  his  sylvan  fort, 

To  do  the  honors  of  his  court, 

As  fits  a  feathered  lord  of  land, 

Flew  near,  with  soft  wing  grazed  my  hand, 

Hopped  on  the  bough,  then,  darting  low, 

Prints  his  small  impress  on  the  snow, 

Shows  feats  of  his  gymnastic  play, 

Head  downward,  clinging  to  the  spray. 

Here  was  this  atom  in  full  breath 

Hurling  defiance  at  vast  death, 

This  scrap  of  valor  just  for  play 

Fronts  the  north-wind  in  waistcoat  gray, 

As  if  to  shame  my  weak  behavior. 

I  greeted  loud  my  little  saviour  : 

"  Thou  pet !  what  dost  here  ?  and  what  for? 

In  these  woods,  thy  small  Labrador 

At  this  pinch,  wee  San  Salvador ! 

What  fire  burns  in  that  little  chest, 

So  frolic,  stout,  and  self-possest  ? 

Didst  steal  the  glow  that  lights  the  West  ? 

Henceforth  I  wear  no  stripe  but  thine : 

Ashes  and  black  all  hues  outshine. 

Why  are  not  diamonds  black  and  gray, 

To  ape  thy  dare-devil  array  ? 


R.   W.   EMERSON. 

And  I  affirm  the  spacious  North 
Exists  to  draw  thy  virtue  forth. 
I  think  no  virtue  goes  with  size : 
The  reason  of  all  cowardice 
Is,  that  men  are  overgrown, 
And,  to  be  valiant,  must  come  down 
To  the  titmouse  dimension." 

'T  is  good-will  makes  intelligence, 

And  I  began  to  catch  the  sense 

Of  my  bird's  song  :  "  Live  out  of  doors, 

In  the  great  woods,  and  prairie  floors. 

I  dine  in  the  sun ;  when  he  sinks  in  the  sea, 

I,  too,  have  a  hole  in  a  hollow  tree. 

And  I  like  less  when  summer  beats 

With  stifling  beams  on  these  retreats 

Than  noontide  twilight  which  snow  makes 

With  tempest  of  the  blinding  flakes  : 

For  well  the  soul,  if  stout  within, 

Can  arm  irnpregnably  the  skin  ; 

And  polar  frost  my  frame  defied, 

Made  of  the  air  that  blows  outside." 

With  glad  remembrance  of  my  debt, 
I  homeward  turn.     Farewell,  my  pet ! 
When  here  again  thy  pilgrim  comes, 
He  shall  bring  store  of  seeds  and  crumbs. 
Henceforth  I  prize  thy  wiry  chant 
O'er  all  that  mass  and  minster  vaunt : 
For  men  mishear  thy  call  in  spring, 
As  't  would  accost  some  frivolous  wing, 
Crying  out  of  the  hazel  copse,  "  Phe — be  !  " 
And  in  winter  "  Chic-a-dee-dee  !  " 
I  think  old  Crcsar  must  have  heard 
In  Northern  Gaul  my  dauntless  bird, 


THE   TITMOUSE.  287 

And,  echoed  in  some  frosty  wold, 
Borrowed  thy  battle-numbers  bold. 
And  I  shall  write  our  annals  new, 
And  thank  thee  for  a  better  clew : 
I,  who  dreamed  not,  when  I  came  here. 
To  find  the  antidote  of  fear, 
Now  hear  thee  say  in  Roman  key, 
"Paan!    Ve-ni,  Vi-di,  Vi-ci." 


LITTLE    PANSIE. 

A   FRAGMENT. 
BY  NATHANIEL  HAWTHOKNE. 

DOCTOR  DOLLIVER,  a  worthy  personage  of  ex- 
treme antiquity,  was  aroused  rather  prematurely,  one 
summer  morning,  by  the  shouts  of  the  child  Pansie,  in  an 
adjoining  chamber,  summoning  Old  Martha  (who  performed 
the  duties  of  nurse,  housekeeper,  and  kitchen-maid,  in  the 
Doctor's  establishment)  to  take  up  her  little  ladyship  and 
dress  her.  The  old  gentleman  woke  with  more  than  his  cus- 
tomary alacrity,  and,  after  taking  a  moment  to  gather  his 
wits  about  him,  pulled  aside  the  faded  moreen  curtains  of 
his  ancient  bed,  and  thurst  his  head  into  a  beam  of  sunshine 
that  caused  him  to  wink  and  withdraw  it  again.  This  tran- 
sitory glimpse  of  good  Dr.  Dolliver  showed  a  flannel  night- 
cap, fringed  round  with  stray  locks  of  silvery  white  hair, 
and  surmounting  a  meagre  and  duskily  yellow  visage,  which 
was  crossed  and  criss-crossed  with  a  record  of  his  long  life 
in  wrinkles,  faithfully  written,  no  doubt,  but  with  such 
cramped  chirography  of  Father  Time  that  the  purport  was 
illegible.  It  seemed  hardly  worth  while  for  the  patriarch 
to  get  out  of  bed  any  more,  and  bring  his  forlorn  shadow 
into  the  summer  day  that  was  made  for  younger  folks.  The 
Doctor,  however,  was  by  no  means  of  that  opinion,  being  con- 
siderably encouraged  towards  the  toil  of  living  twenty-four 
hours  longer  by  the  comparative  ease  with  which  he  found 


LITTLE    PAXSIE.  289 

himself  going  through  the  usually  painful  process  of  bestirring 
bis  rusty  joints,  (stiffened  by  the  very  rest  and  sleep  that 
should  have  made  them  pliable,)  and  putting  them  in  a 
condition  to  bear  his  weight  upon  the  floor.  Nor  was  he 
absolutely  disheartened  by  the  idea  of  those  tonsorial,  ablu- 
tionary.  and  personally  decorative  labors  which  are  apt  to 
become  so  intolerably  irksome  to  an  old  gentleman,  after 
performing  them  daily  and  daily  for  fifty,  sixty,  or  seventy 
years,  and  finding  them  still  as  immitigably  recurrent  as  at 
first.  Dr.  Dolliver  could  nowise  account  for  this  happy 
condition  of  his  spirits  and  physical  energies,  until  he 
remembered  taking  an  experimental  sip  of  a  certain  cordial 
which  was  long  ago  prepared  by  his  grandson  and  carefully 
sealed  up  in  a  bottle,  and  had  been  reposited  in  a  dark  closet 
among  a  parcel  of  effete  medicines  ever  since  that  gifted 
young  man's  death. 

"  It  may  have  wrought  effect  upon  me,"  thought  the  Doc- 
tor, shaking  his  head  as  he  lifted  it  again  from  the  pillow. 
"  It  may  be  so ;  for  poor  Cornelius  oftentimes  instilled  a 
strange  efficacy  into  his  perilous  drugs.  But  I  will  rather 
believe  it  to  be  the  operation  of  God's  mercy,  which  may 
have  temporarily  invigorated  my  feeble  age  for  little  Pan- 
sie's  sake." 

A  twinge  of  his  familiar  rheumatism,  as  he  put  his  foot 
out  of.  bed,  taught  him  that  he  must  not  reckon  too  confi- 
dently upon  even  a  day's  respite  from  the  intrusive  family 
of  aches  and  infirmities  which,  with  their  proverbial  fidelity 
to  attachments  once  formed,  had  long  been  the  closest  ac- 
quaintances that  the  poor  old  gentleman  had  in  the  world. 
Nevertheless,  he  fancied  the  twinge  a  little  less  poignant 
than  those  of  yesterday ;  and,  moreover,  after  stinging  him 
pretty  smartly,  it  passed  gradually  off  with  a  thrill,  which, 
in  its  latter  stages,  grew  to  be  almost  agreeable.  Pain  is 
but  pleasure  too  strongly  emphasized.  With  cautious  move- 
ments, aiid  only  a  groan  or  two,  the  good  Doctor  transferred 

13  8 


290  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

himself  from  the  bed  to  the  floor,  where  he  stood  awhile 
gazing  from  one  piece  of  quaint  furniture  to  another,  (such 
as  stiff-backed  Mayflower  chairs,  an  oaken  chest-of-drawers 
carved  cunningly  with  shapes  of  animals  and  wreaths  of 
foliage,  a  table  with  multitudinous  legs,  a  family -record  in 
faded  embroidery,  a  shelf  of  black-bound  books,  a  dirty 
heap  of  gallipots  and  phials  in  a  dim  corner,)  — gazing  at 
these  things  and  steadying  himself  by  the  bedpost,  while 
his  inert  brain,  still  partially  benumbed  with  sleep,  came 
slowly  into  accordance  with  the  realities  about  him.  The 
object  which  most  helped  to  bring  Dr.  Dolliver  completely 
to  his  waking  perceptions  was  one  that  common  observers 
might  suppose  to  have  been  snatched  bodily  out  of  his 
dreams.  The  same  sunbeam  that  had  dazzled  the  Doctor 
between  the  bed-curtains  gleamed  on  the  weather-beaten 
gilding  which  had  once  adorned  this  mysterious  symbol,  and 
showed  it  to  be  an  enormous  serpent,  twining  round  a  wood- 
en post,  and  reaching  quite  from  the  floor  of  the  chamber  to 
its  ceiling. 

It  was  evidently  a  thing  that  could  boast  of  considerable 
antiquity,  the  dry-rot  having  eaten  out  its  eyes  and  gnawed 
away  the  tip  of  its  tail ;  and  it  must  have  stood  long  ex- 
posed to  the  atmosphere,  for  a  kind  of  gray  moss  had  par- 
tially overspread  its  tarnished  gilt  surface,  and  a  swallow,  or 
other  familiar  little  bird,  in  some  by-gone  summer,  seemed 
to  have  built  its. nest  in  the  yawning  and  exaggerated 
mouth.  It  looked  like  a  kind  of  Manichean  idol,  which 
might  have  been  elevated  on  a  pedestal  for  a  century  or  so, 
enjoying  the  worship  of  its  votaries  in  the  open  air.  until 
the  impious  sect  perished  from  among  men,  —  all  save  old 
Dr.  Dolliver,  who  had  set  up  the  monster  in  his  bedchamber 
for  the  convenience  of  private  devotion.  But  we  are  un- 
pardonable in  suggesting  such  a  fantasy  to  the  prejudice  of 
our  venerable  friend,  knowing  him  to  have  been  as  pious 
and  upright  a  Christian,  and  with  as  little  of  the  serpent  in 


LITTLE   PAXSIE.  291 

his  character,  as  ever  came  of  Puritan  lineage.  Not  to 
make  a  further  mystery  about  a  very  simple  matter,  this 
bedimmcd  and  rotten  reptile  was  once  the  medical  emhlem 
or  apothecary's  sign  of  the  famous  Dr.  Swinnerton,  who 
practised  physic  in  the  earlier  days  of  New  England,  when  a 
head  of  ^sculapius  or  Hippocrates  would  have  vexed  the 
souls  of  the  righteous  as  .savoring  of  heathendom.  The 
ancient  dispenser  of  drugs  had  therefore  set  up  an  image  of 
the  Brazen  Serpent,  and  followed  his  business  for  many 
years,  with  great  credit  under  this  Scriptural  device;  and 
Dr.  Dolliver,  being  the  apprentice,  pupil,  and  humble  friend 
of  the  learned  Swinnerton's  old  age,  had  inherited  the  sym- 
bolic snake,  and  much  other  valuable  property,  by  his  be- 
quest. 

While  the  patriarch  was  putting  on  his  small-clothes,  he 
took  care  to  stand  in  the  parallelogram  of  bright  sunshine 
that  fell  upon  the  uncarpeted  floor.  The  summer  warmth 
was  very  genial  to  his  system,  and  yet  made  him  shiver ; 
his  wintry  veins  rejoiced  at  it,  though  the  reviving  blood 
tingled  through  them  with  a  half  painful  and  only  half 
pleasurable  titillation.  For  the  first  few  moments  after 
creeping  out  of  bed,  he  kept  his  back  to  the  sunny  window 
and  seemed  mysteriously  shy  of  glancing  thitherward ;  but 
as  the  June  fervor  pervaded  him  more  and  more  thoroughly, 
he  turned  bravely  about,  and  looked  forth  at  a  burial-ground 
on  the  corner  of  which  he  dwelt.  There  lay  many  an  old 
acquaintance,  who  had  gone  to  sleep  with  the  flavor  of  Dr. 
Dolliver's  tinctures  and  powders  upon  his  tongue ;  it  was 
the  patient's  final  bitter  taste  of  this  world,  and  perhaps 
doomed  to  be  a  recollected  nauseousness  in  the  next.  Ye.>- 
terday,  in  the  chill  of  his  forlorn  old  age,  the  Doctor  expect- 
ed r-oon  to  stretch  out  his  weary  bones  among  that  quiet 
community,  and  might  scarcely  have  shrunk  from  the  pros- 
pect on  his  own  account,  except,  indeed,  that  he  dreamily 
mixed  up  the  infirmities  of  his  present  condition  with  the 


292  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

repose  of  the  approaching  one,  being  haunted  by  a  notion 
that  the  damp  earth,  under  the  grass  and  dandelions,  must 
needs  be  pernicious  for  his  cough  and  his  rheumatism.  But, 
this  morning,  the  cheerful  sunbeams,  or  the  mere  taste  of 
his  grandson's  cordial  that  he  had  taken  at  bedtime,  or  the 
fitful  vigor  that  often  sports  irreverently  with  aged  people, 
had  caused  an  unfrozen  drop  of  youthfulness,  somewhere 
within  him,  to  expand. 

"  Hem  !  ahem  !  "  quoth  the  Doctor,  hoping  with  one  effort 
to  clear  his  throat  of  the  dregs  of  a  ten  years'  cough. 
"Matters  are  not  so  far  gone  with  rne  as  I  thought.  I 
have  known  mighty  sensible  men,  when  only  a  little  age- 
stricken  or  otherwise  out  of  sorts,  to  die  of  mere  faintheart- 
edness, a  great  deal  sooner  than  they  need." 

He  shook  his  silvery  head  at  his  own  image  in  the  look- 
ing-glass, as  if  to  impress  the  apophthegm  on  that  shadowy 
representative  of  himself;  and  for  his  part,  he  determined 
to  pluck  up  a  spirit  and  live  as  long  as  he  possibly  could,  if 
it  were  only  for  the  sake  of  little  Pansie,  who  stood  as  close 
to  one  extremity  of  human  life  as  her  great-grandfather  tc 
the  other.  This  child  of  three  years  old  occupied  all  the 
unfossilized  portion  of  good  Dr.  Dolliver's  heart.  Every 
other  interest  that  he  formerly  had,  and  the  entire  confra- 
ternity of  persons  whom  he  once  loved,  had  long  ago 
departed,  and  the  poor  Doctor  could  not  follow  them,  be- 
cause the  grasp  of  Pansie's  baby-fingers  held  him  back. 

So  he  crammed  a  great  silver  watch  into  his  fob,  and 
drew  on  a  patchwork  morning-gown  of  an  ancient  fashion. 
Its  original  material  was  said  to  have  been  the  embroidered 
front  of  his  own  wedding-waistcoat  and  the  silken  skirt  of 
his  wife's  bridal  attire,  which  his  eldest  granddaughter  had 
taken  from  the  carved  chest-of-drawers,  after  poor  Bessie, 
the  beloved  of  his  youth,  had  been  half  a  century  in  the 
grave.  Throughout  many  of  the  intervening  years,  as  the 
garment  got  ragged,  the  spinsters  of  the  old  man's  family 


LITTLE  PANSIE.  293 

had  quilted  their  duty  and  affection  into  it  in  the  shape  of 
patches  upon  patches,  rose-color,  crimson,  blue,  violet;  and 
green,  and  then  (as  their  hopes  faded,  and  their  life  kept 
growing  shadier,  and  their  attire  took  a  sombre  hue)  sober 
pray  and  great  fragments  of  funereal  black,  until  the  Doctor 
could  revive  the  memory  of  most  things  that  had  befallen 
him  by  looking  at  his  patchwork-gown,  as  it  hung  upon  a 
.chair.  And  now  it  was  ragged  again,  and  all  the  fingers 
that  should  have  mended  it  were  cold.  It  had  an  Eastern 
fragrance,  too,  a  smell  of  drugs,  strong-scented  herbs,  and 
spicy  gums,  gathered  from  the  many  potent  infusions  that 
had  from  time  to  time  been  spilt  over  it ;  so  that,  snuffing 
him  afar  off,  you  might  have  taken  Dr.  Dolliver  for  a  mum- 
my, and  could  hardly  have  been  undeceived  by  his  shrunken 
and  torpid  aspect,  as  he  crept  nearer. 

Wrapt  in  his  odorous  and  many-colored  robe,  he  took 
staff  in  hand  and  moved  pretty  vigorously  to  the  head  of 
the  staircase.  As  it  was  somewhat  steep,  and  but  dimly 
lighted,  he  began  cautiously  to  descend,  putting  his  left  hand 
on  the  banister,  and  poking  down  his  long  stick  to  assist  him 
in  making  sure  of  the  successive  steps ;  and  thus  he  became 
a  living  illustration  of  the  accuracy  of  Scripture,  where  it 
describes  the  aged  as  being  "  afraid  of  that  which  is  high," 
—  a  truth  that  is  often  found  to  have  a  sadder  purport  than 
its  external  one.  Half-way  to  the  bottom,  however,  the 
Doctor  heard  the  impatient  and  authoritative  tones  of  little 
Pansie, —  Queen  Pansie,  as  she  might  fairly  have  been 
styled,  in  reference  to  her  position  in  the' household,  —  call- 
ing amain  for  grandpapa  and  breakfast.  He  was  startled 
into  such  perilous  activity  by  the  summons,  that  his  heels 
slid  on  the  stairs,  the  slippers  were  shuffled  off  his  feet,  and 
he  saved  himself  from  a  tumble  only  by  quickening  his 
pace,  and  coming  down  at  almost  u  run. 

"  Mercy  on  my  poor  old  bones  ! "  mentally  exclaimed  the 
Doctor,  fancying  himself  fractured  in  fifty  places.  "  Some 


294  NATHANIEL    HAWTHORNE. 

of  them  are  broken,  surely,  and  metliinks  my  heart  has 
leaped  out  of  my  mouth !  What !  all  right  ?  Well,  well ! 
but  Providence  is  kinder  to  me  than  I  deserve,  prancing 
down  this  steep  staircase  like  a  kid  of  three  months  old ! " 

He  bent  stiffly  to  gather  up  his  slippers  and  fallen  staff; 
and  meanwhile  Pansie  had  heard  the  tumult  of  her  great- 
grandfather's descent,  and  was  pounding  against  the  door 
of  the  breakfast-room  in  her  haste  to  come  at  him.  The 
Doctor  opened  it,  and  there  she  stood,  a  rather  pale  and 
large-eyed  little  thing,  quaint  in  her  aspect,  as  might  well 
be  the  case  with  a  motherless  child,  dwelling  in  an  uncheer- 
ful  house,  with  no  other  playmates  than  a  decrepit  old  man 
and  a  kitten,  and  no  better  atmosphere  within-doors  than 
the  odor  of  decayed  apothecary's  stuff,  nor  gayer  neighbor- 
hood than  that  of  the  adjacent  burial-ground,  where  all  her 
relatives,  from  her  great-grandmother  downward,  lay  calling 
to  her, "  Pansie,  Pansie,  it  is  bedtime  ! "  even  in  the  prime  of 
the  summer  morning.  For  those  dead  women-folk,  especi- 
ally her  mother  and  the  whole  row  of  maiden  aunts  and 
grand-aunts,  could  not  but  be  anxious  about  the  child,  know- 
ing that  little  Pansie  would  be  far  safer  under  a  tuft  of 
dandelions  than  if  left  alone,  as  she  soon  must  be,  in  this 
difficult  and  deceitful  world. 

Yet,  in  spite  of  the  lack  of  damask  roses  in  her  cheeks, 
she  seemed  a  healthy  child,  and  certainly  showed  great  ca- 
pacity of  energetic  movement  in  the  impulsive  capers  with 
which  she  welcomed  her  venerable  progenitor.  She  shouted 
out  her  satisfaction,  moreover,  (as  her  custom  was,  having 
never  had  any  over-sensitive  auditors  about  her  to  tame 
down  her  voice,)  till  even  the  Doctor's  dull  ears  were  full 
of  the  clamor. 

"  Pansie,  darling,"  said  Dr.  Dolliver  cheerily,  patting  her 
brown  hair  with  his  tremulous  fingers,  "  thou  hast  put  some 
of  thine  own  friskiness  into  poor  old  grandfather,  this  fine 
morning  !  Dost  know,  child,  that  he  came  near  breaking  his 


LITTLE   PANSIE.  295 

necK  down-stairs  at  the  sound  of  thy  voice?  What  wouldst 
thou  have  done  then,  little  Pansie  ?  " 

"  Kiss  poor  grandpapa  and  make  him  well !  "  answered 
the  child,  remembering  the  Doctor's  own  mode  o£,  cure  in 
similar  mishaps  to  herself.  "It  shall  do  poor  grandpapa 
good ! "  she  added,  putting  up  her  mouth  to  apply  the 
remedy. 

"  Ah,  little  one,  thou  hast  greater  faith  in  thy  medicines 
than  ever  I  had  in  my  drugs,"  replied  the  patriarch  with  a 
giggle,  surprised  and  delighted  at  his  own  readiness  of 
response.  "  But  the  kiss  is  good  for  my  feeble  old  heart, 
Pansie,  though  it  might  do  little  to  mend  a  broken  neck ;  so 
give  grandpapa  another  dose,  and  let  us  to  breakfast." 

In  this  merry  humor  they  sat  down  to  the  table,  great- 
grandpapa  and  Pausie  side  by  side,  and  the  kitten,  as  soon 
appeared,  making  a  third  in  the  party.  First,  she  showed 
her  mottled  head  out  of  Pansie's  lap,  delicately  sipping  milk 
from  the  child's  basin  without  rebuke ;  then  she  took  post 
on  the  old  gentleman's  shoulder,  purring  like  a  spinning- 
wheel,  trying  her  claws  in  the  wadding  of  his  dressing- 
gown,  and  still  more  impressively  reminding  him  of  her 
presence  by  putting  out  a  paw  to  intercept  a  warmed-over 
morsel  of  yesterday's  chicken  on  its  way  to  the  Doctor's 
mouth.  After  skilfully  achieving  this  feat,  she  scrambled 
down  upon  the  breakfast-table  and  began  to  wasli  her  face 
and  hands.  Evidently,  these  companions  were  all  three  on 
intimate  terms,  as  was  natural  enough,  since  a  great  manv 
childish  impulses  were  softly  creeping  back  on  the  simple- 
minded  old  man ;  insomuch  that,  if  no  worldly  necessities 
nor  painful  infirmity  had  disturbed  him,  his  remnant  of  life 
might  have  been  as  cheaply  and  cheerily  enjoyed  as  the 
early  playtime  of  the  kitten  and  the  child.  Old  Dr.  Dol- 
liver  and  his  great-granddaughter  (a  ponderous  title,  which 
seemed  quite  to  overwhelm  the  tiny  figure  of  Pansie)  had 
met  one  another  at  the  two  extremities  of  the  life-circle 


296  NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE 

her  sunrise  served  him  for  a  sunset,  illuminating  his  locks 
of  silver  and  hers  of  golden  brown  with  a  homogeneous 
shimmer  of  twinkling  light. 

Little  Pansie  was  the  one  earthly  creature  that  inherited 
a  drop  of  the  Dolliver  blood.  The  Doctor's  only  child,  poor 
Bessie's  offspring,  had  died  the  better  part  of  a  hundred 
years  before,  and  his  grandchildren,  a  numerous  and  dimly 
remembered  brood,  had  vanished  along  his  weary  track  in 
their  youth,  maturity,  or  incipient  age,  till,  hardly  knowing 
how  it  had  all  happened,  he  found  himself  tottering  onward 
with  an  infant's  small  fingers  in  his  nerveless  grasp.  So 
mistily  did  his  dead  progeny  come  and  go  in  the  patriarch's 
decayed  recollection,  that  this  solitary  child  represented  for 
him  the  successive  babyhoods  of  the  many  that  had  gone 
before.  The  emotions  of  his  early  paternity  came  back  to 
him.  She  seemed  the  baby  of  a  past  age  oftener  than  she 
seemed  Pansie.  A  whole  family  of  grand-aunts,  (one  of 
whom  had  perished  in  her  cradle,  never  so  mature  as  Pansie 
now,  another  in  her  virgin  bloom,  another  in  autumnal  maid- 
enhood, yellow  and  shrivelled,  with  vinegar  in  her  blood, 
and  still  another,  a  forlorn  widow,  whose  grief  outlasted 
even  its  vitality,  and  grew  to  be  merely  a  torpid  habit,  and 
was  saddest  then,)  —  all  their  hitherto  forgotten  features 
peeped  through  the  face  of  the  great-grandchild,  and  their 
long  inaudible  voices  sobbed,  shouted,  or  laughed,  in  her 
familiar  tones.  But  it  often  happened  to  Dr.  Dolliver,  while 
frolicking  amid  this  throng  of  ghosts,  where  the  one  reality 
looked  no  more  vivid  than  its  shadowy  sisters,  —  it  often 
happened  that  his  eyes  filled  with  tears  at  a  sudden  per- 
ception of  what  a  sad  and  poverty-stricken  old  man  he  was, 
already  remote  from  his  own  generation,  and  bound  to 
stray  farther  onward  as  the  sole  playmate  and  protector  of  a 
child ! 

As  Dr.  Dolliver,  in  spite  of  his  advanced  epoch  of  life,  is 
likely  to  remain  a  considerable  time  longer  upon  our  hands. 


LITTLE   PANSIE.  2(,»7 

we  deem  it  expedient  to  give  a  brief  sketch  of  his  position, 
in  order  that  the  story  may  get  onward  with  the  greater 
freedom  when  he  rises  from  the  breakfast-table.  Deeming 
it  a  matter  of  courtesy,  we  have  allowed  him  the  honorary 
title  of  Doctor,  as  did  all  his  townspeople  and  contempora- 
ries, except,  perhaps,  one  or  two  formal  old  physicians, 
stingy  of  civil  phrases  and  over-jealous  of  their  own  pro- 
fessional dignity.  Nevertheless,  these  crusty  graduates  were 
technically  right  in  excluding  Dr.  Dolliver  from  their  fra- 
ternity. He  had  never  received  the  degree  of  any  medical 
school,  nor  (save  it  might  be  for  the  cure  of  a  toothache,  or 
a  child's  rash,  or  a  whitlow  on  a  seamstress's  finger,  or  some 
such  trifling  malady)  had  he  ever  been  even  a  practitioner 
of  the  awful  science  with  which  his  popular  designation  con- 
nected him.  Our  old  friend,  in  short,  even  at  his  highest 
social  elevation,  claimed  to  be  nothing  more  than  an  apothe- 
cary, and,  in  these  later  and  far  less  prosperous  days,  scarcely 
so  much.  Since  the  death  of  his  last  surviving  grandson, 
(Pansie's  father,  whom  he  had  instructed  in  all  the  mys- 
teries of  his  science,  and  who,  being  distinguished  by  an  ex- 
perimental and  inventive  tendency,  was  generally  believed  to 
have  poisoned  himself  with  an  infallible  panacea  of  his  own 
distillation,)  —  since  that  final  bereavement,  Dr.  Dolliver's 
once  pretty  flourishing  business  had  lamentably  declined. 
After  a  few  months  of  unavailing  struggle,  he  found  it  ex- 
pedient to  take  down  the  Brazen  Serpent  from  the  position 
to  which  Dr.  Swinnerton  had  originally  elevated  it,  in  front 
of  his  shop  in  the  main  street,  and  to  retire  to  his  private 
dwelling,  situated  in  a  by-lane  and  on  the  edge  of  a  burial- 
ground. 

This  house,  as  well  as  the  Brazen  Serpent,  some  old  med- 
ical books,  and  a  drawer  full  of  manuscripts,  had  come  to 
him  by  the  legacy  of  Dr.  Swinnerton.  The  dreariness  of  the 
locality  had  been  of  small  importance  to  our  friend  in  his 
young  manhood,  when  he  first  led  his  fair  wife  over  the 
13* 


298  NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE. 

threshold,  and  so  long  as  neither  of  them  had  any  kinship 
with  the  human  dust  that  rose  into  little  hillocks,  and  still 
kept  accumulating  beneath  their  window.  But,  too  soon 
afterwards,  when  poor  Bessie  herself  had  gone  early  to  rest 
there,  it  is  probable  that  an  influence  from  her  grave  may 
have  prematurely  calmed  and  depressed  her  widowed  hus- 
band, taking  away  much  of  the  energy  from  what  should 
have  been  the  most  active  portion  of  his  life.  Thus  he 
never  grew  rich.  His  thrifty  townsmen  used  to  tell  him, 
that,  in  any  other  man's  hands,  Dr.  Swinnerton's  Brazen 
Serpent  (meaning,  I  presume,  the  inherited  credit  and  goyd- 
will  of  that  old  worthy's  trade)  would  need  but  ten  years* 
time  to  transmute  its  brass  into  gold.  In  Dr.  Dolliver's 
keeping,  as  we  have  seen,  the  inauspicious  symbol  lost  the 
greater  part  of  what  superficial  gilding  it  originally  had. 
Matters  had  not  mended  with  him  in  more  advanced  life, 
after  he  had  deposited  a  further  and  further  portion  of  his 
heart  and  its  affections  in  each  successive  one  of  a  long  row 
of  kindred  graves ;  and  as  he  stood  over  the  last  of  them, 
holding  Pansie  by  the  hand  and  looking  down  upon  the 
coffin  of  his  grandson,  it  is  no  wonder  that  the  old  man 
wept,  partly  for  those  gone  before,  but  not  so  bitterly  as  for 
the  little  one  that  stayed  behind.  Why  had  not  God  taken 
her  with  the  rest?  And  then,  so  hopeless  as  he  was,  so 
destitute  of  possibilities  of  good,  his  weary  frame,  his  de- 
crepit bones,  his  dried-up  heart,  might  have  crumbled  into 
dust  at  once,  and  have  been  scattered  by  the  next  wind  over 
all  the  heaps  of  earth  that  were  akin  to  him. 

This  intensity  of  desolation,  however,  was  of  too  positive 
a  character  to  be  long  sustained  by  a  person  of  Dr.  Dolli- 
ver's original  gentleness  and  simplicity,  and  now  so  com- 
pletely tamed  by  age  and  misfortune.  Even  before  he 
turned  away  from  the  grave,  he  grew  conscious  of  a  slightly 
cheering  and  invigorating  effect  from  the  tight  grasp  of  the 
child's  warm  little  hand.  Feeble  as  he  was,  she  seemed  to 


LITTLE    PANS\E.  299 

adopt  him  willingly  for  her  protector.  And  the  Doctor 
never  afterwards  shrank  from  his  duty  nor  quailed  beneath 
it,  but  bore  himself  like  a  man,  striving,  amid  the  sloth  of 
age  and  the  breakiug-up  of  intellect,  to  earn  the  competency 
which  he  had  failed  to  accumulate  even  in  his  most  vigorous 
days. 

To  the  extent  of  securing  a  present  subsistence  for  Pansie 
aud  himself,  he  was  successful.  After  his  son's  death,  when 
the  Brazen  Serpent  fell  into  popular  disrepute,  a  small  share 
of  tenacious  patronage  followed  the  old  man  into  his  retire- 
ment. In  his  prime,  he  had  been  allowed  to  possess  more 
skill  than  usually  fell  to  the  share  of  a  Colonial  apothecary, 
having  been  regularly  apprenticed  to  Dr.  Swinnerton,  who, 
throughout  his  long  practice,  was  accustomed  personally  to 
concoct  the  medicines  which  he  prescribed  and  dispensed. 
It  was  believed,  indeed,  that  the  ancient  physician  had 
learned  the  art  at  the  world-famous  drug-manufactory  of 
Apothecary's  Hall,  in  London,  and,  as  some  people  half- 
malignly  whispered,  had  perfected  himself  under  masters 
more  subtle  than  were  to  be  found  even  there.  Unques- 
tionably, in  many  critical  cases  he  was  known  to  have  em- 
ployed remedies  of  mysterious  composition  and  dangerous 
potency,  which  in  less  skilful  hands  would  have  been  more 
likely  to  kill  than  cure.  He  would  willingly,  it  is  said,  have 
taught  his  apprentice  the  secrets  of  these  prescriptions,  but 
the  lafter,  being  of  a  timid  character  and  delicate  conscience, 
had  shrunk  from  acquaintance  with  them.  It  was  probably 
as  the  result  of  the  same  scrupulosity  that  Dr.  Dolliver  had 
always  declined  to  enter  the  medical  profession,  in  which 
his  old  instructor  had  set  him  such  heroic  examples  of 
adventurous  dealing  with  matters  of  life  and  death.  Never- 
theless, the  aromatic  fragrance,  so  to  speak,  of  the  learned 
Swinnerton's  reputation  had  clung  to  our  friend  through 
life ;  and  there  were  elaborate  preparations  in  the  pharma- 
copoeia of  that  day,  requiring  such  minute  skill  and  consci- 


300  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

entious  fidelity  in  the  concocter  that  the  physicians  were  still 
glad  to  confide  them  to  one  in  whom  these  qualities  were  so 
evident. 

Moreover,  the  grandmothers  of  the  community  were  kind 
to  him,  and  mindful  of  his  perfumes,  his  rose-water,  his 
cosmetics,  tooth-powders,  pomanders,  and  pomades,  the  scent- 
ed memory  of  which  lingered  about  their  toilet-tables,  or 
came  faintly  back  from  the  days  when  they  were  beautiful. 
Among  this  class  of  customers  there  was  still  a  demand  for 
certain  comfortable  little  nostrums,  (delicately  sweet  and 
pungent  to  the  taste,  cheering  to  the  spirits,  and  fragrant  in 
the  breath.)  the  proper  distillation  of  which  was  the  airiest 
secret  that  the  mystic  Swinnerton  had  left  behind  him. 
And,  besides,  these  old  ladies  had  always  liked  the  manners 
of  Dr.  Dolliver,  and  used  to  speak  of  his  gentle  courtesy  be- 
hind the  counter  as  having  positively  been  something  to  ad- 
mire ;  though,  of  later  years,  an  unrefined,  an  almost  rustic 
simplicity,  such  as  belonged  to  his  humble  ancestors,  appear- 
ed to  have  taken  possession  of  him,  as  it  often  does  of  prettily 
mannered  men  in  their  late  decay. 

But  it  resulted  from  all  these  favorable  circumstances  that 
the  Doctor's  marble  mortar,  though  worn  with  long  service 
and  considerably  damaged  by  a  crack  that  pervaded  it,  con- 
tinued to  keep  up  an  occasional  intimacy  with  the  pestle  ; 
and  he  still  weighed  drachms  and.  scruples  in  his  delicate 
scales,  though  it  seemed  impossible,  dealing  with  such  mi- 
nute quantities,  that  his  tremulous  fingers  should  not  put  in 
too  little  or  too  much,  leaving  out  life  with  the  deficiency  or 
spilling  in  death  with  the  surplus.  To  say  the  truth,  his 
stanchest  friends  were  beginning  to  think  that  Dr.  Dolliver's 
fits  of  absence  (when  his  mind  appeared  absolutely  to  depart 
from  him,  while  his  frail  old  body  worked  on  mechanically) 
rendered  him  not  quite  trustworthy  without  a  close  super- 
vision of  his  proceedings.  It  was  impossible,  however,  to 
convince  the  aged  apothecary  of  the  necessity  for  such  vigi- 


LITTLE   PANSIE.  301 

lance ;  and  if  anything  could  stir  up  his  gentle  temper  to 
wrath,  or,  as  oftener  happened,  to  tears,  it  was  the  attempt 
(which  he  was  marvellously  quick  to  detect)  thus  to  inter- 
fere with  his  long-familiar  business. 

The  public,  meanwhile,  ceasing  to  regard  Dr.  Dolliver  in 
his  professional  aspect,  had  begun  to  take  an  interest  in  him 
as  perhaps  their  oldest  fellow-citizen.  It  was  he  that  re- 
membered the  Great  Fire  and  the  Great  Snow,  and  that  had 
been  a  grown-up  stripling  at  the  terrible  epoch  of  Witch- 
Times,  and  a  child  just  breeched  at  the  breaking-out  of  King 
Philip's  Indian  War.  He,  too,  in  his  school-boy  days,  had 
received  a  benediction  from  the  patriarchal  Governor  Brad- 
street,  and  thus  could  boast  (somewhat  as  Bishops  do  of 
their  unbroken  succession  from  the  Apostles)  of  a  transmit- 
ted blessing  from  the  whole  company  of  sainted  Pilgrims, 
among  whom  the  venerable  magistrate  had  been  an  honored 
companion.  Viewing  their  townsman  in  this  aspect,  the 
people  revoked  the  courteous  Doctorate  with  which  they 
had  heretofore  decorated  him,  and  now  knew  him  most 
familiarly  as  Grandsir  Dolliver.  His  white  head,  his  Puri- 
tan band,  his  threadbare  garb,  (the  fashion  of  which  he  had 
ceased  to  change,  half  a  century  ago,)  his  gold-headed  staff, 
that  had  been  Dr.  Swinnerton's,  his  shrunken,  frosty  figure, 
and  its  feeble  movement,  —  all  these  characteristics  had  a 
wholeness  and  permanence  in  the  public  recognition,  like 
the  meeting-house  steeple  or  the  town-pump.  All  the 
younger  portion  of  the  inhabitants  unconsciously  ascribed 
a  sort  of  aged  immortality  to  Grandsir  Dolliver's  infirm  and 
reverend  presence.  They  fancied  that  he  had  been  born 
old,  (at  least,  I  remember  entertaining  some  such  notions 
about  age-stricken  people,  when  I  myself  was  young.)  and 
that  he  could  the  better  tolerate  his  aches  and  incommodities, 
his  dull  ears  and  dim  eyes,  his  remoteness  from  human  inter- 
course within  the  crust  of  indurated  years,  the  cold  tempera- 
ture that  kept  him  always  shivering  and  sad,  the  heavj 


302  NATHANIEL    HAWTHORNE. 

burden  that  invisibly  bent  down  his  shoulders,  —  that  all 
these  intolerable  things  might  bring  a  kind  of  enjoyment  to 
Grandsir  Dolliver,  as  the  life-long  conditions  of  his  peculiar 
existence. 

But,  alas !  it  was  a  terrible  mistake.  This  weight  of 
years  had  a  perennial  novelty  for  the  poor  sufferer.  He 
never  grew  accustomed  to  it,  but,  long  as  he  had  now  borne 
the  fretful  torpor  of  his  waning  life,  and  patient  as  he 
seemed,  he  still  retained  an  inward  consciousness  that  these 
stiffened  shoulders,  these  quailing  knees,  this  cloudiness  of 
sight  and  brain,  this  confused  forgetfulness  of  men  and 
affairs,  were  troublesome  accidents  that  did  not  really  belong 
to  him.  He  possibly  cherished  a  half-recognized  idea  that 
they  might  pass  away.  Youth,  however  eclipsed  for  a 
season,  is  undoubtedly  the  proper,  permanent,  and  genuine 
condition  of  man ;  and  if  we  look  closely  into  this  dreary 
delusion  of  growing  old,  we  shall  find  that  it  never  abso- 
lutely succeeds  in  laying  hold  of  our  innermost  convictions. 
A  sombre  garment,  woven  of  life's  unrealities,  has  muffled 
us  from  our  true  self,  but  within  it  smiles  the  young  man 
whom  we  knew ;  the  ashes  of  many  perishable  things  have 
fallen  upon  our  youthful  fire,  but  beneath  them  lurk  the 
seeds  of  inextinguishable  flame.  So  powerful  is  this  in- 
stinctive faith  that  men  of  simple  modes  of  character  are 
prone  to  antedate  its  consummation.  And  thus  it  happened 
with  poor  Grandsir  Dolliver,  who  often  awoke  from  an  old 
man's  fitful  sleep  with  a  sense  that  his  senile  predicament 
was  but  a  dream  of  the  past  night ;  and  hobbling  hastily 
across  the  cold  floor  to  the  looking-glass,  he  would  be  griev- 
ously disappointed  at  beholding  the  white  hair,  the  wrinkles 
and  furrows,  the  ashen  visage  and  bent  form,  the  melancholy 
mask  of  Age,  in  which,  as  he  now  remembered,  some  strange 
and  sad  enchantment  had  involved  him  for  years  gone  by ! 

To  other  eyes  than  his  own,  however,  the  shrivelled  olf* 
gentleman  looked  as  if  there  were  little  hope  of  his  throw- 


LITTLE   PANSIE.  303 

ing  off  this  too  artfully  wrought  disguise,  until,  at  no  distant 
day,  his  stooping  figure  should  be  straightened  out,  his  hoary 
locks  be  smoothed  over  his  brows,  and  his  much  enduring 
bones  be  laid  safely  away,  with  a  green  coverlet  spread  over 
them,  beside  his  Bessie,  who  doubtless  would  recognize  her 
youthful  companion  in  spite  of  his  ugly  garniture  of  decay. 
He  longed  to  be  gazed  at  by  the  loving  eyes  now  closed ; 
he  shrank  from  the  hard  stare  of  them  that  loved  him  not, 
"\Yalking  the  streets  seldom  and  reluctantly,  he  felt  a  dreary 
impulse  to  elude  the  people's  observation,  as  if  with  a  sense 
that  he  had  gone  irrevocably  out  of  fashion,  and  broken  his 
connecting  links  with  the  network  of  human  life  ;  or  else  it 
was  that  nightmare-feeling  which  we  sometimes  have  in 
dreams,  when  we  seem  to  find  ourselves  wandering  through 
a  crowded  avenue,  with  the  noonday  sun  upon  us,  in  some 
wild  extravagance  of  dress  or  nudity.  He  was  conscious  of 
estrangement  from,  his  towns-people,  but  did  not  always 
know  how  nor  wherefore,  nor  why  he  should  be  thus  grop- 
ing through  the  twilight  mist  in  solitude.  It'  they  spoke 
loudly  to  him,  with  cheery  voices,  the  greeting  translated 
itself  faintly  and  mournfully  to  his  ears ;  if  they  shook  him 
by  the  hand,  it  was  as  if  a  thick,  insensible  glove  absorbed 
the  kindly  pressure  and  the  warmth.  When  little  Pansie 
was  the  companion  of  his  walk,  her  childish  gayety  and 
freedom  did  not  avail  to  bring  him  into  closer  relationship 
with  men,  but  seemed  to  follow  him  into  that  region  of  in- 
definable remoteness,  that  dismal  Fairy-Land  of  aged  fancy, 
into  which  old  Grander  Dolliver  had  so  strangely  crept 
away. 

Yet  there  were  moments,  as  many  persons  had  noticed, 
when  the  great-grandpapa  would  suddenly  take  stronger 
hin-s  of  life.  It  was  as  if  his  faded  figure  had  been  col- 
ored over  anew,  or  at  least,  as  he  and  Pansie  moved  along 
tin;  street,  as  if  a  sunbeam  had  fallen  across  him,  instead 
of  the  gray  gloom  of  an  instant  before.  His  chilled  sensi- 


304  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

bilities  had  probably  been  touched  and  quickened  by  the 
warm  contiguity  of  his  little  companion  through  the  medium 
of  her  hand,  as  it  stirred  within  his  own,  or  some  inflection 
of  her  voice  that  set  his  memory  ringing  and  chiming  with 
forgotten  sounds.  While  that  music  lasted,  the  old  man 
was  alive  and  happy.  And  there  were  seasons,  it  might  be, 
happier  than  even  these,  when  Pansie  had  been  kissed  and  put 
to  bed,  and  Grandsir  Dolliver  sat  by  hi*  fireside  gazing  in 
among  the  massive  coals,  and  absorbing  their  glow  into  those 
cavernous  abysses  with  which  all  men  communicate.  Hence 
come  angels  or  fiends  into  our  twilight  musings,  according 
as  we  may  have  peopled  them  in  by-gone  years.  Over 
our  friend's  face,  in  the  rosy  flicker  of  the.  fire-gleam,  stole 
an  expression  of  repose  and  perfect  trust  that  made  him  as 
beautiful  to  look  at,  in  his  high-backed  chair,  as  the  child 
Pansie  on  her  pillow ;  and  sometimes  the  spirits  that  were 
watching  him  beheld  a  calm  surprise  draw  slowly  over  his 
features  and  brighten  into  joy,  yet  not  so  vividly  as  to  break 
his  evening  quietude.  The  gate  of  heaven  had  been  kindly 
left  ajar,  that  this  forlorn  old  creature  might  catch  a  glimpse 
within.  All  the  night  afterwards,  he  would  be  semi-con- 
scious of  an  intangible  bliss  diffused  through  the  fitful  lapses 
of  an  old  man's  slumber,  and  would  awake,  at  early  dawn, 
with  a  faint  thrilling  of  the  heartstrings,  as  if  there  had 
been  music  just  now  wandering  over  them. 


PALINGENESIS. 


BY  H.  W.  LONGFELLOW. 

I  LAY  upon  the  headland-height,  and  listened 
To  the  incessant  sobbing  of  the  sea 
In  caverns  under  me, 

And  watched  the  waves,  that  tossed  and  fled  and  glistened, 
Until  the  rolling  meadows  of  amethyst 
Melted  away  in  mist 

Then  suddenly,  as  one  from  sleep,  I  started ; 
For  round  about  me  all  the  sunny  capes 

Seemed  peopled  with  the  shapes 
Of  those  whom  I  had  known  in  days  departed, 
Apparelled  in  the  loveliness  which  gleams 

On  faces  seen  in  dreams. 

A  moment  only,  and  the  light  and  glory 
Faded  away,  and  the  disconsolate  shore 

Stood  lonely  as  before  ; 
And  the  wild  roses  of  the  promontory 
Around  me  shuddered  in  the  wind,  and  shed 

Their  petals  of  pale  red. 

There  was  an  old  belief  that  in  the  embers 
Of  all  things  their  primordial  form  exists, 
And  cunning  alchemists 


306  H.    W.    LONGFELLOW. 

Could  recreate  the  rose  with  all  its  members 
From  its  own  ashes,  but  without  the  bloom, 
Without  the  lost  perfume. 

Ah,  me !  what  wonder-working,  occult  science 
Can  from  the  ashes  in  our  hearts  once  more 

The  rose  of  youth  restore  ? 
What  craft  of  alchemy  can  bid  defiance 
To  time  and  change,  and  for  a  single  hour 

Renew  this  phantom-flower  ? 

"  Oh,  give  me  back,"  I  cried,  "  the  vanished  splendor* 
The  breath  of  morn,  and  the  exultant  strife, 

When  the  swift  stream  of  life 
Bounds  o'er  its  rocky  channel,  and  surrenders 
The  pond,  with  all  its  lilies,  for  the  leap 

Into  the  unknown  deep !  " 

And  the  sea  answered,  with  a  lamentation, 
Like  some  old  prophet  wailing,  and  it  said, 

"  Alas  !  thy  youth  is  dead  ! 
It  breathes  no  more,  its  heart  has  no  pulsation, 
In  the  dark  places  with  the  dead  of  old 

It  lies  forever  cold !  " 

Then  said  I,  "  From  its  consecrated  cerements 
I  will  not  drag  this  sacred  dust  again, 

Only  to  give  me  pain  ; 

But,  still  remembering  all  the  lost  endearments, 
Go  on  my  way,  like  one  who  looks  before, 

And  turns  to  weep  no  more." 

Into  what  land  of  harvests,  what  plantations 
Bright  with  autumnal  foliage  and  the  glow 
Of  sunsets  burning  low  ; 


PALINGENESIS.  307 

Beneath  what  midnight  skies,  whose  constellations 
Light  up  the  spacious  avenues  between 
This  world  and  the  unseen  ! 

Amid  what  friendly  greetings  and  caresses, 
What  households,  though  not  alien,  yet  not  mine, 

What  bowers  of  rest  divine ; 
To  what  temptations  in  lone  wildernesses, 
Whnt  famine  of  the  heart,  what  pain  and  loss, 

The  bearing  of  what  cross  ! 

I  do  not  know  ;  nor  will  I  vainly  question 
Those  pages  of  the  mystic  book  which  hold 

The  story  still  untold, 
But  without  rash  conjecture  or  suggestion 
Turn  its  last  leaves  in  reverence  and  good  heed, 

Until  "  The  End  "  I  read. 


EIP    VAN    WINKLE 


BY  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


[The  following  Tale  was  found  among  the  papers  of  the  late  Died- 
rich  Knickerbocker,  an  old  gentleman  of  New  York,  who  was  very 
curious  in  the  Dutch  history  of  the  province,  and  the  manners  of 
the  descendants  from  its  primitive  settlers.  His  historical  re- 
searches, however,  did  not  lie  so  much  among  books  as  among  men  ; 
for  the  former  are  lamentably  scanty  on  his  favorite  topics  ;  whereas 
he  found  the  old  burghers,  and  still  more  their  wives,  rich  in  that 
legendary  lore  so  invaluable  to  true  history.  Whenever,  therefore, 
he  happened  upon  a  genuine  Dutch  family,  snugly  shut  up  in  its 
low-roofed  farmhouse,  under  a  spreading  sycamore,  he  looked  upon 
it  as  a  little  clasped  volume  of  black-letter,  and  studied  it  with  the 
zeal  of  a  bookworm. 

The  result  of  all  these  researches  was  a  history  of  the  province 
during  the  reign  of  the  Dutch  governors,  which  he  published  some 
years  since.  There  have  been  various  opinions  as  to  the  literary 
character  of  his  work,  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  it  is  not  a  whit  better 
than  it  should  be.  Its  chief  merit  is  its  scrupulous  accuracy,  which 
indeed  was  a  little  questioned  on  its  first  appearance,  but  has  since 
been  completely  established ;  and  it  is  now  admitted  into  all  his- 
torical collections,  as  a  book  of  unquestionable  authority. 

The  old  gentleman  died  shortly  after  the  publication  of  his  work, 
and  now  that  he  is  dead  and  gone,  it  cannot  do  much  harm  to  his 
memory  to  say,  that  his  time  might  have  been  much  better  em- 
ployed in  weightier  labors.  He,  however,  was  apt  to  ride  his  hobby 
his  own  way  ;  and  though  it  did  now  and  then  kick  up  the  dust  a 
little  in  the  eyes  of  ^iis  neighbors,  and  grieve  the  spirit  of  some 
friends,  for  whom  he  felt  the  truest  deference  and  affection  ;  yet  his 
errors  and  follies  are  remembered  "more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger," 
and  it  begins  to  be  suspected  that  he  never  intended  to  injure  or 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE.  309 

offend.  But,  however  his  memory  may  be  appreciated  by  critics,  it 
is  still  held  dear  by  many  folk  whose  good  opinion  is  well  worth 
having  ;  particularly  by  certain  biscuit- bakers,  who  have  gone  so  far 
as  to  imprint  his  likeness  on  their  new-year  cakes  ;  and  have  thus 
given  him  a  chance  for  immortality,  almost  equal  to  the  being 
stamped  on  a  Waterloo  Medal,  or  a  Queen  Anne's  farthing.] 


RIP    VAN    WINKLE. 

A  POSTHUMOUS  WRITING  OF  DIEDRICH   KNICKERBOCKER. 

"  By  Woden,  God  of  Saxons, 
From  whence  comes  Wensday,  that  is  Wodensday, 
Truth  is  a  thing  that  ever  I  will  keep 
Unto  thylke  day  in  which  I  creep  into 
My  sepulchre.7' 

CARTWRIGHT. 

WHOEVER  has  made  a  voyage  up  the  Hudson, 
must  remember  the  Kaatskill  Mountains.  They 
are  a  dismembered  branch  of  the  great  Appalachian  family, 
and  are  seen  away  to  the  west  of  the  river,  swelling  up  to 
a  noble  height,  and  lording  it  over  the  surrounding  country. 
Every  change  of  season,  every  change  of  weather,  indeed 
every  hour  of  the  day.  produces  some  change  in  the  magi- 
cal hues  and  shapes  of  these  mountains,  and  they  are  re- 
garded by  all  the  good  wives,  far  and  near,  as  perfect 
barometers.  When  the  weather  is  fair  and  settled,  they 
are  clothed  in  blue  and  purple,  and  print  their  bold  out- 
lines on  the  clear  evening  sky ;  but  sometimes,  when  the 
rest  of  the  landscape  is  cloudless,  they  will  gather  a  hood 
of  gray  vapors  about  their  summits,  which,  in  the  last  rays 
of  the  setting  sun,  will  glow  and  light  up  like  a  crown  of 
glory. 

At  the  foot  of  these  fairy  mountains  the  voyager  may 
have  descried  the  light  smoke  curling  up  from  a  village, 


310  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

whose  shingle-roofs  gleam  among  the  trees,  just  where  the 
blue  tints  of  the  upland  melt  away  into  the  fresh  green  of 
the  nearer  landscape.  It  is  a  little  village  of  great  antiq- 
uity, having  been  founded  by  some  of  the  Dutch  colonists 
in  the  early  times  of  the  province,  just  about  the  beginning 
of  the  government  of  the  good  Peter  Stuyvesant,  (may  he 
rest  in  peace !)  and  there  were  some  of  the  houses  of  the 
original  settlers  standing  within  a  few  years,  built  of  small 
yellow  bricks  brought  from  Holland,  having  latticed  win- 
dows and  gable  fronts,  surmounted  with  weathercocks. 

In  that  same  village,  and  in  one  of  these  very  houses, 
(which,  to  tell  the  precise  truth,  was  sadly  time-worn  and 
weather-beaten,)  there  lived  many  years  since,  while  the 
country  was  yet  a  province  of  Great  Britain,  a  simple 
good-natured  fellow,  of  the  name  of  Rip  Van  Winkle. 
He  was  a  descendant  of  the  Van  Winkles  who  figured  so 
gallantly  in  the  chivalrous  days  of  Peter  Stuyvesant,  and 
accompanied  him  to  the  siege  of  Fort  Christina.  He  in- 
herited, however,  but  little  of  the  martial  character  of  his 
ancestors.  I  have  observed  that  he  was  a  simple  good- 
natured  man  ;  he  was,  moreover,  a  kind  neighbor,  and  «n 
obedient  hen-pecked  husband.  Indeed,  to  the  latter  cir- 
cumstance might  be  owing  that  meekness  of  spirit  which 
gained  him  such  universal  popularity  ;  for  those  men  are 
most  apt  to  be  obsequious  and  conciliating  abroad,  who  are 
under  the  discipline  of  shrews  at  home.  Their  tempers, 
doubtless,  are  rendered  pliant  and  malleable  in  the  fiery 
furnace  of  domestic  tribulation,  and  a  curtain  lecture  is 
worth  all  the  sermons  in  the  world  for  teaching  the  virtues 
of  patience  and  long-suffering.  A  termagant  wife  may, 
therefore,  in  some  respects,  be  considered  a  tolerable  bless- 
ing; and  if  so,  Rip  Van  Winkle  was  thrice  blessed. 

Certain  it  is,  that  he  was  a  great  favorite  among  all  the 
good  wives  of  the  village,  who,  as  usual  with  the  amiable 
sex,  -took  his  part  in  all  family  squabbles ;  and  never 


RIP   VAX   WINKLE.  311 

failed,  whenever  they  talked  those  matters  over  in  their 
evening  gossipings,  to  lay  all  the  blame  on  Dame  Van 
Winkle.  The  children  of  the  village,  too,  would  shout 
with  joy  whenever  he  approached.  He  assisted  at  their 
sports,  made  their  playthings,  taught  them  to  fly  kites  and 
shoot  marbles,  and  told  them  long  stories  of  ghosts,  witches, 
and  Indians.  Whenever  he  went  dodging  about  the  vil- 
lage, he  was  surrounded  by  a  troop  of  them,  hanging  on 
his  skirts,  clambering  on  his  back,  and  playing  a  thousand 
tricks  on  him  with  impunity ;  and  not  a  dog  would  bark 
at  him  throughout  the  neighborhood. 

The  great  error  in  Rip's  composition  was  an  insuperable 
aversion  to  all  kinds  of  profitable  labor.  It  could  not  be 
from  the  want  of  assiduity  or  perseverance ;  for  he  would 
sit  on  a  wet  rock,  with  a  rod  as  long  and  heavy  as  a  Tar- 
tar's lance,  and  fish  all  day  without  a  murmur,  even  though 
he  should  not  be  encouraged  by  a  single  nibble.  He 
would  carry  a  fowling-piece  on  his  shoulder  for  hours 
together,  trudging  through  woods  and  swamps,  and  up  hill 
and  down  dale,  to  shoot  a  few  squirrels  or  wild  pigeons. 
He  would  never  refuse  to  assist  a  neighbor  even  in  the 
roughest  toil,  and  was  a  foremost  man  at  all  country  frolics 
for  husking  Indian  corn,  or  building  stone  fences :  the 
women  of  the  village,  too,  used  to  employ  him  to  run  their 
errands,  and  to  do  such  little  odd  jobs  as  their  less  obliging 
husbands  would  not  do  for  them.  In  a  word,  Rip  was 
ready  to  attend  to  anybody's  business  but  his  own  ;  but  as 
to  doing  family  duty,  and  keeping  his  farm  in  order,  he 
found  it  impossible. 

In  fact,  he  declared  it  was  of  no  use  to  work  on  his  farm  ; 
it  was  the  most  pestilent  little  piece  of  ground  in  the  whole 
country ;  everything  about  it  went  wrong,  and  would  go 
wrong,  in  spite  of  him.  His  fences  were  continually  falling 
to  pieces  ;  his  cow  would  either  go  astray,  or  get  among  the 
cabbages ;  weeds  were  sure  to  grow  quicker  in  his  fields 


312  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

than  anywhere  else ;  the  rain  always  made  a  point  of  set- 
ting in  just  as  he  had  some  out-door  work  to  do ;  so  that 
though  his  patrimonial  estate  had  dwindled  away  under 
his  management,  acre  by  acre,  until  there  was  little  more 
left  than  a  mere  patch  of  Indian  corn  and  potatoes,  yet 
it  was  the  worst  conditioned  farm  in  the  neighborhood. 

His  children,  too,  were  as  ragged  and  wild  as  if  they 
belonged  to  nobody.  His  son  Rip,  an  urchin  begotten  in 
his  own  likeness,  promised  to  inherit  the  habits,  with  the 
old  clothes  of  his  father.  He  was  generally  seen  trooping 
like  a  colt  at  his  mother's  heels,  equipped  in  a  pair  of  his 
father's  cast-off  galligaskins,  which  he  had  much  ado  to 
hold  up  with  one  hand,  as  a  fine  lady  does  her  train  in  bad 
weather. 

Rip  Van  Winkle,  however,  was  one  of  those  happy 
mortals,  of  foolish,  well-oiled  dispositions,  who  take  the 
world  easy,  eat  white  bread  or  brown,  whichever  can  be  got 
with  least  thought  or  trouble,  and  would  rather  starve  on  a 
penny  than  work  for  a  pound.  If  left  to  himself,  he  would 
have  whistled  life  away  in  perfect  contentment ;  but  his 
wife  kept  continually  dinning  in  his  ears  about  his  idle- 
ness, his  carelessness,  and  the  ruin  he  was  bringing  on  his 
family.  Morning,  noon,  and  night  her  tongue  was  inces- 
santly going,  and  everything  he  said  or  did  was  sure  to 
produce  a  torrent  of  household  eloquence.  Rip  had  but 
one  way  of  replying  to  all  lectures  of  the  kind,  and  that, 
by  frequent  use,  had  grown  into  a  habit.  He  shrugged 
his  shoulders,  shook  his  head,  cast  up  his  eyes,  but  said 
nothing.  This,  however,  always  provoked  a  fresh  volley 
from  his  wife,  so  that  he  was  fain  to  draw  off  his  forces, 
and  take  to  the  outside  of  the  house,  —  the  only  side  which, 
in  truth,  belongs  to  a  hen-pecked  husband. 

Rip's  sole  domestic  adherent  was  his  dog  Wolf,  who  was 
as  much  hen-pecked  as  his  master ;  for  Dame  Van  Winkle 
regarded  them  as  companions  in  idleness,  and  even  looked 


RIP   VAN  WINKLE.  313 

upon  Wolf  with  an  evil  eye,  as  the  cause  of  his  master's 
going  so  often  astray.  True  it  is,  in  all  points  of  spirit  be- 
litting  an  honorable  clog,  he  was  as  courageous  an  animal 
as  ever  scoured  the  woods  ;  but  what  courage  can  withstand 
the  ever-during  and  all-besetting  terrors  of  a  woman's 
tongue  ?  The  moment  Wolf  entered  the  house  his  crest 
fell,  his  tail  drooped  to  the  ground  or  curled  between  his 
!ie  sneaked  about  with  a  gallows  air,  casting  many  a 
sidelong  glance  at  Dame  Van  Winkle,  and  at  the  least 
flourish  of  a  broomstick  or  ladle,  he  would  fly  to  the  door 
with  yelping  precipitation. 

Times  grew  worse  and  worse  with  Rip  Van  Winkle  as 
years  of  matrimony  rolled  on  ;  a  tart  temper  never  mellows 
with  age,  and  a  sharp  tongue  is  the  only  edged  tool  that 
grows  keener  with  constant  use.  For  a  long  while  he  used 
to  console  himself,  when  driven  from  home,  by  frequenting 
a  kind  of  perpetual  club  of  the  sages,  philosophers,  and 
other  idle  personages  of  the  village,  which  held  its  sessions 
on  a  bench  before  a  small  inn,  designated  by  a  rubicund 
portrait  of  his  Majesty  George  the  Third.  Here  they 
used  to  sit  in  the  shade  through  a  long,  lazy  summer's  day, 
talking  listlessly  over  village  gossip,  or  telling  endless  sleepy 
stories  about  nothing.  But  it  would  have  been  worth  any 
statesman's  money  to  have  heard  the  profound  discussions 
that  sometimes  took  place,  when  by  chance  an  old  news- 
paper fell  into  their  hands  from  some  passing  traveller. 
How  solemnly  they  would  listen  to  the  contents,  as  drawled 
out  by  Derrick  Van  Bummel,  the  schoolmaster,  a  dapper, 
learned  little  man,  who  was  not  to  be  daunted  by  the 
most  jrigantic  word  in  the  dictionary  ;  and  how  sagely  they 
would  deliberate  upon  public  events  some  months  after 
they  had  taken  place ! 

The  opinions  of  this  junto  were  completely  controlled 
by  Nicholas  Vedder,  a  patriarch  of  the  village,  and  land- 
lord of  the  inn,  at  the  door  of  which  he  took  his  seat  from 


314  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

morning  till  night,  just  moving  sufficiently  to  avoid  the 
sun  and  keep  in  the  shade  of  a  large  tree  ;  so  that  the 
neighbors  could  tell  the  hour  by  his  movements  as  accu- 
rately as  by  a  sun-dial.  It  is  true  he  was  rarely  heard  to 
speak,  but  smoked  his  pipe  incessantly.  His  adherents, 
however,  (for  every  great  man  has  his  adherents,)  perfectly 
understood  him,  and  knew  how  to  gather  his  opinions. 
When  anything  that  was  read  or  related  displeased  him, 
he  was  observed  to  smoke  his  pipe  vehemently,  and  to 
send  forth  short,  frequent,  and  angry  puffs  ;  but  when 
pleased,  he  would  inhale  the  smoke  slowly  and  tranquilly, 
and  emit  it  in  light  and  placid  clouds ;  and  sometimes, 
taking  the  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and  letting  the  fragrant 
vapor  curl  about  his  nose,  would  gravely  nod  his  head  in 
token  of  perfect  approbation. 

From  even  this  stronghold  the  unlucky  Rip  was  at 
length  routed  by  his  termagant  wife,  who  would  suddenly 
break  in  upon  the  tranquillity  of  the  assemblage  and  call 
the  members  all  to  naught ;  nor  was  that  august  person- 
age, Nicholas  Vedder  himself,  sacred  from  the  daring 
tongue  of  this  terrible  virago,  who  charged  him  outright 
with  encouraging  her  husband  in  habits  of  idleness. 

Poor  Rip  was  at  last  reduced  almost  to  despair;  and 
his  only  alternative,  to  escape  from  the  labor  of  the  farm 
and  clamor  of  his  wife,  was  to  take  gun  in  hand  and  stroll 
away  into  the  woods.  Here  he  would  sometimes  seat 
himself  at  the  foot  of  a  tree,  and  share  the  contents  of  his 
wallet  with  Wolf,  with  whom  he  sympathized  as  a  fellow- 
sufferer  in  persecution.  "  Poor  Wolf,"  he  would  say, 
"  thy  mistress  leads  thee  a  dog's  life  of  it ;  but  never 
mind,  my  lad,  whilst  I  live  thou  shalt  never  want  a  friend 
to  stand  by  thee!"  Wolf  would  wag  his  tail,  look 
wistfully  in  his  master's  face,  and  if  dogs  can  feel  pity, 
I  verily  believe  he  reciprocated  the  sentiment  with  all 
his  heart. 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE.  315 

In  a  long  ramble  of  the  kind  on  a  fine  autumnal  day, 
Rip  had  unconsciously  scrambled  to  one  of  the  highest 
parts  of  the  Kaatskill  Mountains.  He  was  after  his 
favorite  sport  of  squirrel  shooting,  and  the  still  soli- 
tudes had  echoed  and  re-echoed  with  the  reports  of  his 
^un.  Panting  and  fatigued,  he  threw  himself,  late  in 
the  afternoon,  on  a  green  knoll,  covered  with  mountain 
herbage,  that  crowned  the  brow  of  a  precipice.  From 
an  opening  between  the  trees  he  could  overlook  all  the 
lower  country  for  many  a  mile  of  rich  woodland.  He 
saw  at  a  distance  the  lordly  Hudson,  far,  far  below  him, 
moving  on  its  silent  but  majestic  course,  with  the  reflec- 
tion of  a  purple  cloud,  or  the  sail  of  a  lagging  bark, 
here  and  there  sleeping  on  its  glassy  bosom,  and  at  last 
losing  itself  in  the  blue  highlands. 

On  the  other  side  he  looked  down  into  a  deep  moun- 
tain glen,  wild,  lonely,  and  shagged,  the  bottom  filled  with 
fragments  from  the  impending  cliffs,  and  scarcely  lighted 
by  the  reflected  rays  of  the  setting  sun.  For  some  time 
Rip  lay  musing  on  this  scene ;  evening  was  gradually 
advancing ;  the  mountains  began  to  throw  their  long 
blue  shadows  over  the  valleys ;  he  saw  that  it  would  be 
dark  long  before  he  could  reach  the  village,  and  he 
heaved  a  heavy  sigh  when  he  thought  of  encountering 
the  terrors  of  Dame  Van  Winkle. 

As  he  was  about  to  descend,  he  heard  a  voice  from  a 
distance,  hallooing,  "  Rip  Van  Winkle !  Rip  Van  Win- 
kle ! "  He  looked  round,  but  could  see  nothing  but  a 
crow  winging  its  solitary  flight  across  the  mountain.  He 
thought  his  fancy  must  have  deceived  him,  and  turned 
again  to  descend,  when  he  heard  the  same  cry  ring 
through  the  still  evening  air:  "Rip  Van  Winkle!  Rip 
Van  Winkle!"  —  at  the  same  time  Wolf  bristled  up  his 
back,  and.  giving  a  loud  growl,  skulked  to  his  master's 
side,  looking  fearfully  down  into  the  glen.  Rip  now  felt  a 


316  WASHINGTON   IRVING. 

vague  apprehension  stealing  over  him;  he  looked  anx- 
iously in  the  same  direction,  and  perceived  a  strange 
figure  slowly  toiling  up  the  rocks,  and  bending  under  the 
weight  of  something  he  carried  on  his  back.  He  was 
surprised  to  see  any  human  being  in  this  lonely  and  un- 
frequented place,  but  supposing  it  to  be  some  one  of  the 
neighborhood  in  need  of  his  assistance,  he  hastened  down 
to  yield  it. 

On  near  approach  he  was  still  more  surprised  at  the 
singularity  of  the  stranger's  appearance,  lie  was  a  short, 
square-built  old  fellow,  with  thick  bushy  hair,  and  a  grizzled 
beard.  His  dress  was  of  the  antique  Dutch  fashion,  —  a 
cloth  jerkin  strapped  round  the  waist,  several  pairs  of 
breeches,  the  outer  one  of  ample  volume,  decorated  with  rows 
of  buttons  down  the  sides,  and  bunches  at  the  knees.  He 
bore  on  his  shoulder  a  stout  keg,  that  seemed  full  of  liquor, 
and  made  signs  for  Rip  to  approach  and  assist  him  with 
the  load.  Though  rather  shy  and  distrustful  of  this  new 
acquaintance,  Rip  complied  with  his  usual  alacrity  ;  and 
mutually  relieving  each  other,  they  clambered  up  a  narrow 
gully,  apparently  the  dry  bed  of  a  mountain  torrent.  As 
they  ascended,  Rip  every  now  and  then  heard  long  rolling 
peals,  like  distant  thunder,  that  seemed  to  issue  out  of  a 
deep  ravine,  or  rather  cleft,  between  lofty  rocks,  toward 
which  their  rugged  path  conducted.  He  paused  for  an  in- 
stant, but  supposing  it  to  be  the  muttering  of  one  of  those 
transient  bander-showers  which  often  take  place  in  moun- 
tain heights,  he  proceeded.  Passing  through  the  ravine, 
they  came  to  a  hollow,  like  a  small  amphitheatre,  surrounded 
by  perpendicular  precipices,  over  the  brinks  of  which 
impending  trees  shot  their  branches,  so  that  you  only 
caught  glimpses  of  the  azure  sky  and  the  bright  evening 
cloud.  During  the  whole  time  Rip  and  his  companion 
had  labored  on  in  silence;  for  though  the  former  marvelled 
greatly  what  could  be  the  object  of  carrying  a  keg  of 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE.  317 

liquor  up  this  wild  mountain,  yet  there  was  something 
strange  and  incomprehensible  about  the  unknown,  that 
inspired  awe  and  checked  familiarity. 

On  entering  the  amphitheatre,  new  objects  of  wonder 
presented  themselves.  On  a  level  spot  in  the  centre  was  a 
company  of  odd-looking  personages  playing  at  ninepins. 
They  were  dressed  in  a  quaint  outlandish  fashion ;  some 
wore  short  doublets,  others  jerkins,  with  long  knives  in 
their  belts,  and  most  of  them  had  enormous  breeches,  of 
similar  style  with  those  of  the  guide.  Their  visages,  too, 
were  peculiar  :  one  had  a  large  head,  broad  face,  and 
small  piggish  eyes ;  the  face  of  another  seemed  to  consist 
entirely  of  nose,  and  was  surmounted  by  a  white  sugar- 
loaf  hat,  set  off  with  a  little  red  cock's  tail.  They  all  had 
beards,  of  various  shades  and  colors.  There  was  one  who 
seemed  to  be  the  commander.  He  was  a  stout  old  gentle- 
man, with  a  weather-beaten  countenance ;  he  wore  a 
laced  doublet,  broad  belt  and  hanger,  high-crowned  hat 
and  feather,  red  stockings,  and  high-heeled  shoes,  with 
roses  in  them.  The  whole  group  reminded  Rip  of  the 
figures  in  an  old  Flemish  painting,  in  the  parlor  of 
Dominie  Van  Shaick,  the  village  parson,  and  which  had 
been  brought  over  from  Holland  at  the  time  of  the  settle- 
ment. 

What  seemed  particularly  odd  to  Rip  was,  that  though 
these  folks  were  evidently  amusing  themselves,  yet  they 
maintained  the  gravest  faces,  the  most  mysterious  silence, 
and  were,  withal,  the  most  melancholy  party  of  pleasure 
he  had  ever  witnessed.  Nothing  interrupted  the  stillness 
of  the  scene  but  the  noise  of  the  balls,  which,  whenever 
they  were  rolled,  echoed  along  the  mountains  like  rum- 
bling peals  of  thunder. 

As  Rip  and  his  companion  approached  them,  they  sud- 
denly desisted  from  their  play,  and  stared  at  him  with 
such  fixed  statue-like  gaze,  and  such  strange,  uncouth, 


318  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

lack-lustre  countenances,  that  his  heart  turned  within 
him,  and  his  knees  smote  together.  His  companion  now 
emptied  the  contents  of  the  keg  into  large  flagons,  and 
made  signs  to  him  to  wait  upon  the  company.  He 
obeyed  with  fear  and  trembling ;  they  quaffed  the  liquor 
in  profound  silence,  and  then  returned  to  their  game. 

By  degrees  Kip's  awe  and  apprehension  subsided.  He 
even  ventured,  when  no  eye  was  fixed  upon  him,  to  taste 
the  beverage,  which  he  found  had  much  of  the  flavor  of 
excellent  Hollands.  He  was  naturally  a  thirsty  soul,  and 
was  soon  tempted  to  repeat  the  draught.  One  taste  pro- 
voked another  ;  and  he  reiterated  his  visits  to  the  flagon 
so  often  that  at  length  his  senses  were  overpowered,  his 
eyes  swam  in  his  head,  his  head  gradually  declined,  and 
he  fell  into  a  deep  sleep. 

On  waking,  he  found  himself  on  the  green  knoll 
whence  he  had  first  seen  the  old  man  of  the  glen.  He 
rubbed  his  eyes, —  it  was  a  bright  sunny  morning.  The 
birds  were  hopping  and  twittering  among  the  bushes,  and 
the  eagle  was  wheeling  aloft,  and  breasting  the  pure 
mountain  breeze.  "Surely,"  thought  Rip,  "I  have  not 
slept  here  all  night."  He  recalled  the  occurrences  before 
he  fell  asleep.  The  strange  man  with  a  keg  of  liquor  — 
the  mountain  ravine  —  the  wild  retreat  among  the  rocks 
—  the  woe-begorie  party  at  ninepins  —  the  flagon — , 
"Oh!  that  flagon!  that  wicked  flagon  !"  thought  Rip; 
"  what  excuse  shall  I  make  to  Dame  Van  Winkle  ?  " 

He  looked  round  for  his  gun,  but  in  place  of  the 
clean,  well-oiled  fowling-piece,  he  found  an  old  firelock 
lying  by  him,  the  barrel  incrusted  with  rust,  the  lock 
i'alling  off,  and  the  stock  worm-eaten.  He  now  suspected 
that  the  grave  roysters  of  the  mountain  had  put  a  trick 
upon  him,  and,  having  dosed  him  with  liquor,  had 
robbed  him  of  his  gun.  Wolf,  too,  had  disappeared, 
but  he  might  have  strayed  away  after  a  squirrel  or  par- 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE.  319 

tridge.  He  whistled  after  him  and  shouted  his  Dame, 
but  all  in  vain  ;  the  echoes  repeated  his  whistle  and 
shout,  but  no  dog  was  to  be  seen. 

He  determined  to  revisit  the  scene  of  the  last  even- 
gambol,  and  if  he  met  with  any  of  the  party,  to 
demand  his  dog  and  gun.  As  he  rose  to  walk,  he 
found  himself  stiff  in  the  joints,  and  wanting  in  his 
usual  activity.  "These  mountain  beds  do  not  agree 
with  me,''  thought  Rip,  "and  if  this  frolic  should  lay 
me  up  with  a  fit  of  the  rheumatism,  I  shall  have  a 
I  time  with  Dame  Van  Winkle."  With  some  dif- 
ficulty he  got  down  into  the  glen :  he  found  the  gully 
up  which  he  and  his  companion  had  ascended  the 
preceding  evening ;  but  to  his  astonishment  a  mountain 
stream  was  now  foaming  down  it,  leaping  from  rock  to 
rock,  and  filling  the  glen  with  babbling  murmurs.  He, 
however,  made  shift  to  scramble  up  its  sides,  working 
his  toilsome  way  through  thickets  of  birch,  sassafras, 
and  witch-hazel,  and  sometimes  tripped  up  or  entangled 
by  the  wild  grape-vines  that  twisted  their  coils  or  ten- 
drils from  tree  to  tree,  and  spread  a  kind  of  network  in 
his  path. 

At  length  he  reached  to  where  the  ravine  had  opened 
through  the  cliffs  to  the  amphitheatre  ;  but  no  traces  of 
such  opening  remained.  The  rocks  presented  a  high 
impenetrable  wall,  over  which  the  torrent  came  tumbling 
in  a  sheet  of  feathery  foam,  and  fell  into  a  broad  deep 
basin,  black  from  the  shadows  of  the  surrounding  forest. 
Here,  then,  poor  Rip  was  brought  to  a  stand.  He  again 
called  and  whistled  after  his  dog ;  he  was  only  answered 
by  the  cawing  of  a  flock  of  idle  crows,  sporting  high  in 
air  about  a  dry  tree  that  overhung  a  sunny  precipice  ; 
and  who,  secure  in  their  elevation,  seemed  to  look  down 
and  scoff  at  the  poor  man's  perplexities.  What  was  to 
be  done  ?  the  morning  was  passing  away,  and  Rip  felt 


320  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

famished  for  want  of  his  breakfast.  He  grieved  to  give 
up  his  dog  and  his  gun  ;  he  dreaded  to  meet  his  wife  ; 
but  it  would  not  do  to  starve  among  the  mountains.  lie 
shook  his  head,  shouldered  the  rusty  firelock,  and,  with  a 
heart  full  of  trouble  and  anxiety,  turned  his  steps  hunne- 
wurd. 

As  he  approached  the  village  he  met  a  number  of  peo- 
ple, but  none  whom  he  knew,  which  somewhat  surprised 
him,  for  he  had  thought  himself  acquainted  with  every  one 
in  the  country  round.  Their  dress,  too,  was  of  a  different 
fashion  from  that  to  which  he  was  accustomed.  They  all 
stared  at  him  with  equal  marks  of  surprise,  and  whenever 
they  cast  their  eyes  upon  him,  invariably  stroked  their 
chins.  The  constant  recurrence  of  this  gesture  induced 
Rip,  involuntarily,  to  do  the  same,  when,  to  his  astonish- 
ment, he  found  his  beard  had  grown  a  foot  long ! 

He  had  now  entered  the  skirts  of  the  village.  A  troop 
of  strange  children  ran  at  his  heels,  hooting  after  him,  and 
pointing  at  his  gray  beard.  The  dogs,  too,  not  one  of 
which  he  recognized  for  an  old  acquaintance,  barked  at 
him  as  he  passed.  The  very  village  was  altered ;  it  was 
larger  and  more  populous.  There  were  rows  of  houses 
which  he  had  never  seen  before,  and  those  which  had  been 
his  familiar  haunts  had  disappeared.  Strange  names  were 
over  the  doors  —  strange  faces  at  the  windows  —  every- 
thing was  strange.  His  mind  now  misgave  him;  he  began 
to  doubt  whether  both  he  and  the  world  around  him  were 
not  bewitched.  Surely  this  was  his  native  village,  which 
he  had  left  but  the  day  before.  There  stood  the  Kaat- 
skill  Mountains;  there  ran  the  silver  Hudson  at  a  dis- 
tance ;  there  was  every  hill  and  dale  precisely  as  it  had 
always  been ;  Rip  was  sorely  perplexed.  "  That  flagon 
last  night,"  thought  he,  "has  addled  my  poor  head  sadly  !" 

It  was  with  some  difficulty  that  he  found  the  way  to  his 
own  house,  which  he  approached  with  silent  awe,  expect- 


RIP   VAN    WINKLE.  321 

ing  every  moment  to  hear  the  shrill  voice  of  Dame  Van 
Winkle.  He  found  the  house  gone  to  decay,  the  roof 
fallen  in,  the  windows  shattered,  and  the  doors  off  the 
~.  A  half-starved  dog  that  looked  like  Wolf  was 
skulking  about  it.  Rip  called  him  by  name,  but  the  cur 
snarled,  showed  his  teeth,  and  passed  on.  This  was  an 
unkind  cut  indeed.  "  My  very  dog,"  sighed  poor  Rip, 
"  has  forgotten  me  !  " 

He  entered  the  house,  which,  to  tell  the  truth,  Dame 
Van  Winkle  had  always  kept  in  neat  order.  It  was  empty, 
forlorn,  and  apparently  abandoned.  The  desolateness  over- 
came all  his  connubial  fears,  —  he  called  loudly  for  his 
wife  and  children  ;  the  lonely  chambers  rang  for  a  moment 
with  his  voice,  and  then  all  again  was  silence. 

He  now  hurried  forth,  and  hastened  to  his  old  resort, 
the  village  inn  ;  but  it,  too,  was  gone.  A  large  rickety 
wooden  building  stood  in  its  place,  with  great  gaping  win- 
dows, some  of  them  broken,  and  mended  with  old  hats  and 
petticoats ;  and  over  the  door  was  painted,  "  The  Union 
Hotel,  by  Jonathan  Doolittle."  Instead  of  the  great  tree 
that  used  to  shelter  the  quiet  little  Dutch  inn  of  yore,  there 
was  now  reared  a  tall  naked  pole,  with  something  on  the 
top  that  looked  like  a  red  nightcap,  and  from  it  was  flut- 
tering a  flag,  on  which  was  a  singular  assemblage  of  stars 
and  stripes  ;  all  this  was  strange  and  incomprehensible. 
He  recognized  on  the  sign,  however,  the  ruby  face  of  King 
George,  under  which  he  had  smoked  so  many  a  peaceful 
pipe ;  but  even  this  was  singularly  metamorphosed.  The 
red  coat  was  changed  for  one  of  blue  and  bluff,  a  sword 
was  held  in  the  hand  instead  of  a  sceptre,  the  head  was 
decorated  with  a  cocked  hat,  and  underneath  was  painted 
in  large  characters,  GENERAL  WASHINGTON. 

There  was,  as  usual,  a  crowd  of  folks  about  the  door, 
but  none  that  Rip  recollected.  The  very  character  of  the 
people  seemed  changed.  There  was  a  busy,  bustling,  dis- 


322  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

putatious  tone  about  it,  instead  of  the  accustomed  phlegm 
and  drowsy  tranquillity.  He  looked  in  vain  for  the  sage 
Nicholas  Vedder,  with  his  broad  face,  double  chin,  and  fair 
long  pipe,  uttering  clouds  of  tobacco-smoke  instead  of  idle 
speeches ;  or  Van  Bummel,  the  schoolmaster,  doling  forth 
the  contents  of  an  ancient  newspaper.  In  place  of  these, 
a  lean,  bilious-looking  fellow,  with  his  pockets  full  of  hand- 
bills, was  haranguing  vehemently  about  rights  of  citizens  — 
elections  —  members  of  congress  —  liberty  —  Bunker's 
Hill  —  heroes  of  seventy -six  —  and  other  words,  which 
were  a  perfect  Babylonish  jargon  to  the  bewildered  Van 
Winkle. 

The  appearance  of  Rip,  with  his  long  grizzled  beard,  his 
rusty  fowling-piece,  his  uncouth  dress,  and  an  army  of 
women  and  children  at  his  heels,  soon  attracted  the  atten- 
tion of  the  tavern  politicians.  They  crowded  round  him, 
eying  him  from  head  to  foot  with  great  curiosity.  The 
orator  bustled  up  to  him,  and,  drawing  him  partly  aside, 
inquired  u  on  which  side  he  voted."  Rip  stared  in  vacant 
stupidity.  Another  short  but  busy  little  fellow  pulled  him 
by  the  arm,  and,  rising  on  tiptoe,  inquired  in  his  ear 
u  whether  he  was  Federal  or  Democrat."  Rip  was  equally 
at  a  loss  to  comprehend  the  question  ;  when  a  knowing, 
self-important  old  gentleman,  in  a  sharp  cocked  hat,  made 
his  way  through  the  crowd,  putting  them  to  the  rjght  and 
left  with  his  elbows  as  he  passed,  and  planting  himself 
before  Van  Winkle,  with  one  arm  a-kimbo,  the  other  rest- 
ing on  his  cane,  his  keen  eyes  and  sharp  hat  penetrating, 
as  it  were,  into  his  very  soul,  demanded  in  an  austere  tone, 
"  What  brought  him  to  the  election  with  a  gun  on  his 
shoulder,  and  a  mob  at  his  heels,  and  whether  he  meant  to 
breed  a  riot  in  the  village?" — "Alas!  gentlemen,"  cried 
Rip,  somewhat  dismayed,  "  I  am  a  poor  quiet  man,  a  native 
of  the  place,  and  a  loyal  subject  to  the  king,  God  bless 
him ! " 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE.  323 

Here  a  general  shout  burst  from  the  bystanders : "  A  tory ! 
a  tory!  a  spy!  a  refugee !  hustle  him!  away  with  him!" 
It  was  with  great  difficulty  that  the  self-important  man  in 
the  cocked  hat  restored  order ;  and-,  having  assumed  a 
tenfold  austerity  of  brow,  demanded  again  of  the  unknown 
culprit  what  he  came  there  for,  and  whom  he  was  seeking. 
The  poor  man  humbly  assured  him  that  he  meant  no  harm, 
but  merely  came  there  in  search  of  some  of  his  neighbors, 
who  used  to  keep  about  the  tavern. 

"  Well  —  who  are  they  ?  —  name  them." 

Rip  bethought  himself  a  moment,  end  inquired, 
<•  Where  's  Nicholas  Vedder  ?  " 

There  was  a  silence  for  a  little  while,  when  an  old  man 
replied  in  a  thin  piping  voice,  "  Nicholas  Vedder !  why, 
he  is  dead  and  gone  these  eighteen  years !  There  was  a 
wooden  tombstone  in  the  churchyard  that  used  to  tell  all 
about  him,  but  that's  rotten  and  gone  too." 

"  Where's  Brom  Dutcher?" 

"  0,  lie  went  off  to  the  army  in  the  beginning  of  the 
war :  some  say  he  was  killed  at  the  storming  of  Stony 
Point ;  others  say  he  was  drowned  in  a  squall  at  the  foot 
of  Antony's  Nose.  I  don't  know  ;  he  never  came  back 
again.  r 

"  Where's  Van  Bummel,  the  schoolmaster?" 

*"  He  went  off  to  the  wars  too,  was  a  great  militia  gen- 
eral, and  is  now  in  congress." 

Rip's  heart  died  away  at  hearing  of  these  S;K!  changes  in 
his  home  and  friends,  and  finding  himself  thus  alone  in  the 
world.  Every  answer  puzzled  him  too,  by  treating  of 
such  enormous  lapses  of  time,  and  of  matters  which  he 
could  not  understand :  war  —  congress  —  Stony  Point ;  — 
he  had  no  courage  to  ask  after  any  more  friends,  but  cried 
out  in  despair,  "  Does  nobody  here  know  Rip  Van 
Winkle  ?  " 

"  O,  Rip  Van  Winkle  ! "  exclaimed  two  or  three.     «  O, 


324  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

to  be  sure !  that 's  Rip  Van  Winkle  yonder,  leaning  against 
the  tree." 

Rip  looked,  and  beheld  a  precise  counterpart  of  himself, 
as  he  went  up  the'  mountain  :  apparently  as  lazy,  and 
certainly  as  ragged.  The  poor  fellow  was  now  completely 
confounded.  He  doubted  his  own  identity,  and  whether  he 
was  himself  or  another  man.  In  the  midst  of  his  bewilder- 
ment, the  man  in  the  cocked  hat  demanded  who  he  was, 
and  what  was  his  name. 

"  God  knows  !  "  exclaimed  he,  at  his  wit's  end  ;  "  I  'm 
not  myself — I'm  somebody  else  —  that's  me  yonder  — 
no  —  that's  somebody  else  got  into  my  shoes  —  I  was  my- 
self last  night,  but  1  fell  asleep  on  the  mountain,  and 
they've  changed  my  gun,  and  everything's  changed,  and 
I  'm  changed,  and  I  can't  tell  what 's  my  name,  or  who  I 
am!" 

The  bystanders  began  now  to  look  at  each  other,  nod, 
wink  significantly,  and  tap  their  fingers  against  their  fore- 
heads. There  was  a  whisper,  also,  about  securing  the  gun, 
and  keeping  the  old  fellow  from  doing  mischief,  at  the 
very  suggestion  of  which  the  self-important  man  in  the 
cocked  hat  retired  with  some  precipitation.  At  this 
critical  moment  a  fresh  comely  woman  pressed  through 
the  throng  to  get  a  peep  at  the  gray -bearded  man.  She 
had  a  chubby  child  in  her  arms,  which,  frightened  at  his 
looks,  began  to  cry.  "  Hush,  Rip,"  cried  she,  "  hush,  you 
little  fool ;  the  old  man  won't  hurt  you."  The  name  of 
the  child,  the  air  of  the  mother,  the  tone  of  her  voice,  all 
awakened  a  train  of  recollections  in  his  mind.  "  What  is 
your  name,  my  good  woman  ?  "  asked  he. 

"Judith  Gardenier." 

"  And  your  father's  name  ?  " 

"  Ah,  poor  man !  Rip  Van  Winkle  was  his  name,  but 
it's  twenty  years  since  he  went  away  from  home  with  his 
gun,  and  never  has  been  heard  of  since :  his  dog  came  home 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE.  325 

without  him ;  but  whether  he  shot  himself,  or  was  carried 
away  by  the  Indians,  nobody  can  tell.  I  was  then  but  a 
little  girl." 

Rip  had  but  one  question  more  to  ask ;  but  he  put  it 
with  a  faltering  voice  :  — 

*•  Where  's  your  mother  ?  " 

"  Oh,  she  too  had  died  but  a  short  time  since ;  she 
broke  a  blood-vessel  in  a  fit  of  passion  at  a  New  England 
peddler." 

There  was  a  drop  of  comfort,  at  least,  in  this  intelligence. 
The  honest  man  could  contain  himself  no  longer.  He  caught 
his  daughter  and  her  child  in  his  arms.  "I  am  your 
lather !  "  cried  he  —  "  Young  Rip  Van  Winkle  once  —  old 
Rip  Van  Winkle  now !  Does  nobody  know  poor  Rip  Van 
Winkle?" 

All  stood  amazed,  until  an  old  woman,  tottering  out  from 
among  the  crowd,  put  her  hand  to  her  brow,  and  peering  un- 
der it  in  his  face  for  a  moment,  exclaimed,  "  Sure  enough ! 
it  is  Rip  Van  Winkle  —  it  is  himself!  Welcome  home  again, 
old  neighbor !  Why,  where  have  you  been  these  twenty 
long  years ''.  " 

Rip's  story  was  soon  told,  for  the  whole  twenty  years 
had  been  to  him  but  as  one  night.  The  neighbors  stared 
when  they  heard  it ;  some  were  seen  to  wink  at  each 
other,  and  put  their  tongues  in  their  cheeks :  and  the  self- 
important  man  in  the  cocked  hat,  who  when  the  alarm 
was  over  had  returned  to  the  field,  screwed  down  the 
corners  of  his  mouth,  and  shook  his  head ;  upon  which 
there  was  a  general  shaking  of  the  head  throughout  the 
assemblage. 

It  was  determined,  however,  to  take  the  opinion  of  old 
Peter  Vanderdonk,  who  was  seen  slowly  advancing  up  the 
road.  He  was  a  descendant  of  the  historian  of  that  name, 
who  wrote  one  of  the  earliest  accounts  of  the  province. 
Peter  was  the  most  ancient  inhabitant  in  the  village,  and 


326  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

well  versed  in  all  the  wonderful  events  and  traditions  of 
the  neighborhood.  He  recollected  Rip  at  once,  and  cor- 
roborated his  story  in  the  most  satisfactory  manner.  He 
assured  the  company  that  it  was  a  fact,  handed  down  from 
his  ancestor  the  historian,  that  the  Kaatskill  Mountains 
had  always  been  haunted  by  strange  beings;  that  it  was 
affirmed  that  the  great  Hendrick  Hudson,  the  first  dis- 
coverer of  the  river  and  country,  kept  a  kind  of  vigil  there 
every  twenty  years,  with  his  crew  of  the  Half-moon,  being 
permitted  in  this  way  to  revisit  the  scenes  of  his  enterprise, 
and  keep  a  guardian  eye  upon  the  river,  and  the  great  city 
called  by  his  name ;  that  his  father  had  once  seen  them  in 
their  old  Dutch  dresses  playing  at  ninepins  in  a  hollow  of 
the  mountain ;  and  that  he  himself  had  heard,  one  summer 
afternoon,  the  sound  of  their  balls,  like  distant  peals  of 
thunder. 

To  make  a  long  story  short,  the  company  broke  up,  and 
returned  to  the  more  important  concerns  of  the  election. 
Rip's  daughter  took  him  home  to  live  with  her ;  she  had 
a  snug,  well-furnished  house,  and  a  stout  cheery  farmer 
for  her  husband,  whom  Rip  recollected  for  one  of  the  ur- 
chins that  used  to  climb  upon  his  back.  As  to  Rip's  son 
and  heir,  who  was  the  ditto  of  himself,  seen  leaning  against 
the  tree,  he  was  employed  to  work  on  the  farm,  but  evinced 
an  hereditary  disposition  to  attend  to  anything  else  but  his 
business. 

Rip  now  resumed  his  old  walks  and  habits ;  he  soon 
found  many  of  his  former  cronies,  though  all  rather  the 
worse  for  the  wear  and  tear  of  time,  and  preferred  making 
friends  among  the  rising  generation,  with  whom  he  soon 
grew  into  great  favor. 

Having  nothing  to  do  at  home,  and  being  arrived  at  that 
happy  age  when  a  man  can  be  idle  with  impunity,  he  took 
his  place  once  more  on  the  bench  at  the  inn  door,  and  was 
reverenced  as  one  of  the  patriarchs  of  the  village,  and  a 


KIP  VAN  WINKLE.  327 

chronicle  of  the  old  times  <l  before  the  war."  It  was  some 
time  before  he  could  get  into  the  regular  track  of  gossip, 
or  could  be  made  to  comprehend  the  strange  events  that 
had  taken  place  during  his  torpor.  How  that  there  had 
been  a  revolutionary  war,  that  the  country  had  thrown  off 
the  yoke  of  old  England,  and  that,  instead  of  being  a  subject 
of  his  Majesty  George  the  Third,  he  was  now  a  free  citizen 
of  the  United  States.  Rip,  in  fact,  was  no  politician ;  the 
changes  of  states  and  empires  made  but  little  impression  on 
him  ;  but  there  was  one  species  of  despotism  under  which 
he  had  long  groaned,  and  that  was  —  petticoat  government. 
Happily  that  was  at  an  end ;  he  had  got  his  neck  out  of 
the  yoke  of  matrimony,  and  could  go  in  and  out  whenever 
he  pleased,  without  dreading  the  tyranny  of  Dame  Van 
Winkle.  Whenever  her  name  was  mentioned,  however, 
he  shook  his  head,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  cast  up  his 
eyes ;  which  might  pass  either  for  an  expression  of  resig- 
nation to  his  fate,  or  joy  at  his  deliverance. 

He  used  to  tell  his  story  to  every  stranger  that  arrived 
at  Mr.  Doolittle's  hotel.  He  was  observed,  at  first,  to 
vary  on  some  points  every  time  he  told  it,  which  was, 
doubtless,  owing  to  his  having  so  recently  awakened.  It 
at  last  settled  down  precisely  to  the  tale  I  have  related, 
and  not  a  man,  woman,  or  child  in  the  neighborhood,  but 
knew  it  by  heart.  *Some  always  pretended  to  doubt  the 
reality  of  it,  and  insisted  that  Rip  had  been  out  of  his 
head,  and  that  this  was  one  point  on  which  he  always 
remained  flighty.  The  old  Dutch  inhabitants,  however, 
almost  universally  gave  it  full  credit.  Even  to  this  day 
they  never  hear  a  thunder-storm  of  a  summer  afternoon 
about  the  Kaatskill,  but  they  say  Hendrick  Hudson  and 
his  crew  are  at  their  game  of  ninepins ;  and  it  is  a  common 
wish  of  all  hen-pecked  husbands  in  the  neighborhood, 
when  life  hangs  heavy  on  their  hands,  that  they  might  have 
a  quieting  draught  out  of  Rip  Van  Winkle's  flagon. 


328  WASHINGTON   IRVING. 


NOTE. 

The  foregoing  tale,  one  would  suspect,  had  been  suggested  to 
Mr.  Knickerbocker  by  a  little  German  superstition  about  the 
Emperor  Frederick  der  Rothbart,  and  the  Kypphaiiser  moun- 
tain :  the  subjoined  note,  however,  which  he  had  appended  to 
the  tale,  shows  that  it  is  an  absolute  fact,  narrated  with  his 
usual  fidelity :  — 

"  The  story  of  Rip  Van  Winkle  may  seem  incredible  to  many,  but 
nevertheless  I  give  it  my  full  belief,  for  I  know  the  vicinity  of  our 
old  Dutch  settlements  to  have  been  very  subject  to  marvellous 
events  and  appearances.  Indeed,  I  have  heard  many  stranger  stories 
than  this  in  the  villages  along  the  Hudson  ;  all  of  which  were  too 
well  authenticated  to  admit  of  a  doubt.  I  have  even  talked  with 
Rip  Van  Winkle  myself,  who,  when  I  last  saw  him,  was  a  very 
venerable  old  man,  and  so  perfectly  rational  and  consistent  on  every 
other  point,  that  I  think  no  conscientious  person  could  refuse  to 
take  this  into  the  bargain  ;  nay,  I  have  seen  a  certificate  on  the  sub- 
ject, taken  before  a  country  justice,  and  signed  with  a  cross,  in  the 
justice's  own  handwriting.  The  story,  therefore,  is  beyond  the  pos- 
sibility of  doubt.  D.  K." 


POSTSCRIPT. 

The  following  are  travelling  notes  from  a  memorandum-book 
of  Mr.  Knickerbocker  :  —  f 

The  Kaatsberg,  or  Catskill  Mountains,  have  always  been  a  region 
full  of  fable.  The  Indians  considered  them  the  abode  of  spirits,  who 
influenced  the  weather,  spreading  sunshine  or  clouds  over  the  land- 
scape, and  sending  good  or  bad  hunting  seasons.  They  were  ruled 
by  an  old  squaw  spirit,  said  to  be  their  mother.  She  dwelt  on  the 
highest  peak  of  the  Catskills,  and  had  charge  of  the  doors  of  day  and 
night,  to  open  and  shut  them  at  the  proper  hour.  She  hung  up  the 
new  moons  in  the  skies,  and  cut  up  the  old  ones  into  stars.  In 
times  of  drought,  if  properly  propitiated,  she  would  spin  light  sum- 
mer clouds  out  of  cobwebs  and  morning  dew,  and  send  them  off 
from  the  crest  of  the  mountain,  flake  after  flake,  like  flakes  of  carded 
cotton,  to  float  in  the  air ;  until,  dissolved  by  the  heat  of  the  sun, 


RIP   VAN   WINKLE.  329 

they  would  fall  in  gentle  showers,  causing  the  grass  to  spring,  the 
fruits  to  ripen,  and  .the  corn  to  grow  an  inch  an  hour.  If  displeased, 
however,  she  would  brew  up  clouds  black  as  ink,  sitting  in  the  midst 
of  them  like  a  bottle-bellied  spider  in  the  midst  of  its  web ;  and 
when  these  clouds  broke,  woe  betide  the  valleys  ! 

In  old  times,  say  the  Indian  traditions,  there  was  a  kind  of  Mani- 
tou  or  Spirit,  who  kept  about  the  wildest  recesses  of  the  Catskill 
Mountains,  and  took  a  mischievous  pleasure  in  wreaking  all  kinds 
of  evils  and  vexations  upon  the  red  men.  Sometimes  he  would 
assume  the  form  of  a  bear,  a  panther,  or  a  deer,  lead  the  bewildered 
hunter  a  weary  chase  through  tangled  forests  and  among  ragged 
rocks,  and  then  spring  off  with  a  loud  ho  !  ho  !  leaving  him  aghast 
on  the  brink  of  a  beetling  precipice  or  raging  torrent. 

The  favorite  abode  of  this  Manitou  is  still  shown.  It  is  a  great 
rock  or  cliff  on  the  loneliest  part  of  the  mountains,  and,  from  the 
flowering  vines  which  clamber  about  it,  and  the  wild  flowers  which 
abound  in  its  neighborhood,  is  known  by  the  name  of  the  Garden 
Eock.  Near  the  foot  of  it  is  a  small  lake,  the  haunt  of  the  solitary 
bittern,  with  water-snakes  basking  in  the  sun  on  the  leaves  of  the 
pond-lilies,  which  lie  on  the  surface.  This  place  was  held  in  great 
awe  by  the  Indians,  insomuch  that  the  boldest  hunter  would  not 
pursue  his  game  within  its  precincts.  Once  upon  a  time,  however, 
a  hunter  who  had  lost  his  way  penetrated  to  the  garden  rock,  where 
he  beheld  a  number  of  gourds  placed  in  the  crotches  of  trees.  One 
of  these  he  seized,  and  made  off  with  it ;  but  in  the  hurry  of  his 
retreat  he  let  it  fall  among  the  rocks,  when  a  great  stream  gushed 
forth,  which  washed  him  away  and  swept  him  down  precipices, 
where  he  was  dashed  to  pieces,  and  the  stream  made  its  way  to  the 
Hudson,  and  continues  to  flow  to  the  present  day  ;  being  the  iden- 
tical stream  known  by  the  name  of  the  Kaaters-kill. 


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